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SIMON 4 4 

4 4 DALE 


By ANTHONY 

H 

OPE 

I L L U S T C ,%)!-. A 

T 

E D 

■* 






D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
NEW YORK 


CV|^ 3- 


-np7 

^ 4&I*' 

.H3 

(o 


the library of 

CONGRESS. 

Two Copto* Received 

OCT 3 1903 


ropvritjht Entry 



i\Jr ^ 

COPY A. 


Copyright, 1902, by 

A. H. HAWKINS 


All rights reserved 


Copyright, 1897, by 
A. H, Hawkins 

Copyright, 1897, by 
Frederick A. Stokes Company 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER . 

1. The Child of Prophecy .... 1 

II. The Way of Youth . . . .14 

III. The Music of the World . , .27 

IV. Cydaria Revealed . . . . .40 

V. I Am Forbidden to Forget . . .54 

VI. An Invitation to Court . . . .70 

VII. What Came of Honesty . . . .86 

VIII. Madness, Magic, and Moonshine . .102 

IX. Of Gems and Pebbles . . . .118 

X. Je Viens, Tu Viens, II Vient . .135 

XI. The Gentleman from Calais . . .152 

XII. The Deference of His Grace the Duke 169 
XHI. The Meed of Curiosity . . . .187 

XIV. The King’s Cup 206 

XV. M. De Perrencourt Whispers . . . 222 

XVI. M. De Perrencourt Wonders . . . 239 

XVH. What Befell My Last Guinea . . 256 

XVHI. Some Mighty Silly Business . . .275 

XIX. A Night on the Road .... 293 

XX. The Vicar’s Proposition .... 307 

XXI. The Strange Conjuncture of Two Gentle- 
men 321 


V 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTEB PAaB 

XXII. The Device of Loed Carford . . 336 

XXIII. A Pleasant Penitence . . . .351 

XXIV. A Comedy Before the King . . . 368 

XXV. The Mind of M. De Fontelles . . 382 

XXVI. I Come Home 396 


VI 


SIMON DALE 


CHAPTER I 
THE CHILD OF PROPHECY 

One who was in his day a person of great place 
and consideration, and has left a name which future 
generations shall surely repeat so long as the world 
may last, found no better rule for a man’s life than 
that he should incline his mind to move in Charity, 
rest in Providence, and turn upon the poles of 
Truth. This condition, says he, is Heaven upon 
Earth ; and although what touches truth may 
better befit the philosopher who uttered it than the 
vulgar and unlearned, for whom perhaps it is a 
counsel too high and therefore dangerous, what 
comes before should surely be graven by each of us 
on the walls of our hearts. For any man who lived 
in the days that I have seen must have found much 
need of trust in Providence, and by no wit the less 
of charity for men. In such trust and charity I 
have striven to write : in the like I pray you to 
read. 

I, Simon Dale, was born on the seventh day of 
the seventh month in the year of Our Lord sixteen- 
hundred-and-forty-seven. The date was good in 
that the Divine Number was thrice found in it, but 
evil in that it fell on a time of sore trouble both for 
the nation and for our own house ; when men had 
1 


SIMON DALE 


begun to go about saying that if the King would 
not keep his promises it was likely that he would 
keep his head as little; when they who had fought 
for freedom were suspecting that victory had 
brought new tyrants ; when the Vicar was put out 
of his cure; and my father, having trusted the 
King first, the Parhament afterwards, and at last 
neither the one nor the other, had lost the greater 
part of his substance, and fallen from wealth to 
straitened means ; such is the common reward of 
an honest patriotism wedded to an open mind. 
However, the date, good or bad, was none of my 
doing, nor indeed, folks whispered, much of my 
parents’ either, seeing that destiny overruled the 
affair, and Betty Nasroth, the wise woman, an- 
nounced its imminence more than a year before- 
hand. For she predicted the birth, on the very 
day whereon I came into the world, within a mile 
of the parish church, of a male child who — and the 
utterance certainly had a lofty sound about it — 
should love where the King loved, know what the 
King hid, and drink of the King’s cup. Now, inas- 
much as none lived within the limits named by Betty 
Nasroth, save on the one side sundry humble labour- 
ers, whose progeny could expect no such fate, and 
on the other my Lord and Lady Quinton, who 
were wedded but a month before my birthday, the 
prophecy was fully as pointed as it had any need to 
be, and caused to my parents no small questionings. 
It was the third clause or term of the prediction 
that gave most concern alike to my mother and to 
my father; to my mother, because, although of 
discreet mind and a sound Churchwoman, she was 
from her earliest years a Rechabite, and had never 
heard of a King who drank water; and to my father 
2 


THE CHILD OF PROPHECY 


by reason of his decayed estate, which made it im- 
possible for him to contrive how properly to fit me 
for my predestined company. “ A man should not 
drink the King s wine without giving the King as 
good,” my father reflected ruefully. Meanwhile I, 
troubling not at all about the matter, was content 
to prove Betty right in point of the date, and, leav- 
ing the rest to the future, achieved this triumph for 
her most punctually. Whatsoever may await a 
man on his way through the world, he can hardly 
begin hfe better than by keeping his faith with a 
lady. 

She was a strange old woman, this Betty Nas- 
roth, and would likely enough have fared badly in 
the time of the King’s father. Now there was 
bigger game than witches afoot, and nothing worse 
befell her than the scowls of her neighbours and 
the frightened mockery of children. She made 
free reply with curses and dark mutterings, but 
me she loved as being the child of her vision, and 
all the more because, encountering her as I rode in 
my mother’s arms, I did not cry, but held out my 
hands, crowing and struggling to get to her ; where- 
at suddenly, and to my mother’s great terror, she 
exclaimed : “ Thou see’st, Satan ! ” and fell to 
weeping, a thing which, as every woman in the 
parish knew, a person absolutely possessed by the 
Evil One can by no means accomplish (unless, in- 
deed, a bare three drops squeezed from the left eye 
may usurp the name of tears). But my mother 
shrank away from her and would not allow her to 
touch me ; nor was it until I had grown older and 
ran about the village alone that the old woman, 
having tracked me to a lonely spot, took me in her 
arms, mumbled over my head some words I did 
3 


SIMON DALE 


not understand, and kissed me. That a mole grows 
on the spot she kissed is but a fable (for how do 
the women know where her kiss fell save by where 
the mole grows ? — and that is to reason poorly), or 
at the most the purest chance. Nay, if it were 
more, I am content ; for the mole does me no harm, 
and the kiss, as I hope, did Betty some good ; off 
she went straight to the Vicar (who was living then 
in the cottage of my Lord Quinton’s gardener and 
exercising his sacred functions in a secrecy to which 
the whole parish was privy) and prayed him to let 
her partake of the Lord’s Supper : a request that 
caused great scandal to the neighbours and sore em- 
barrassment to the Vicar himself, who, being a 
learned man and deeply read in demonology, grieved 
from his heart that the witch did not play her part 
better. 

“ It is,” said he to my father, “ a monstrous 
lapse.” 

“ Nay, it is a sign of grace,” urged my mother. 

‘‘ It is,” said my father (and I do not know 
whether he spoke perversely or in earnest), “a 
matter of no moment.” 

Now, being steadfastly determined that my boy- 
hood shall be less tedious in the telling than it was 
in the living — for I always longed to be a man, and 
hated my green and petticoat-governed days — I will 
pass forthwith to the hour when I reached the age 
of eighteen years. My dear father was then in 
Heaven, and old Betty had found, as was believed, 
another billet. But my mother lived, and the Vicar, 
like the King, had come to his own again : and I 
was five feet eleven in my stockings, and there was 
urgent need that I should set about pushing my 
way and putting money in my purse; for our lands 


THE CHILD OF PROPHECY 


had not returned with the King, and there was no 
more incoming than would serve to keep my mother 
and sisters in the style of gentlewomen. 

“ And on that matter,” observed the Vicar, strok- 
ing his nose with his forefinger, as his habit was in 
moments of perplexity, “ Betty Nasroth’s prophecy 
is of small service. For the doings on which she 
touches are likely to be occasions of expense rather 
than sources of gain.” 

“ They would be money wasted,” said my mother 
gently, “ one and all of them.” 

The Vicar looked a little doubtful. 

“ I will write a sermon on that theme,” said he ; 
for this was with him a favourite way out of an ar- 
gument. In truth the Vicar loved the prophecy, 
as a quiet student often loves a thing that echoes 
of the world which he has shunned. 

“You must write down for me what the King 
says to you, Simon,” he told me once. 

“ Suppose, sir,” I suggested mischievously, “that 
it should not be fit for your eye ? ” 

“ Then write it, Simon,” he answered, pinching 
my ear, ‘ ‘ for my understanding. ’ ’ 

It was well enough for the Vicars whimsical 
fancy to busy itself with Betty Nasroth s prophecy, 
half- believing, half-mocking, never forgetting nor 
disregarding ; but I, who am, after all, the most 
concerned, doubt whether such a dark utterance be 
a wholesome thing to hang round a young man’s 
neck. The dreams of youth grow rank enough 
without such watering. The prediction was always 
in my mind, alluring and tantalising as a teasing 
girl who puts her pretty face near yours, safe that 
you dare not kiss it. What it said I mused on, 
what it said not I neglected. I dedicated my idle 
5 


SIMON DALE 


hours to it, and, not appeased, it invaded my seasons 
of business. Rather than seek my own path, I left 
myself to its will and hearkened for its whispered 
orders. 

“ It was the same,” observed my mother sadly, 
‘ ‘ with a certain cook-maid of my sister’s. It was 
foretold that she should marry her master.” 

“ And did she not ? ” cried the Vicar, with ears 
all pricked-up. 

“ She changed her service every year,” said my 
mother, “ seeking the hkeliest man, until at last 
none would hire her.” 

“ She should have stayed in her first service,” 
said the Vicar, shaking his head. 

“ But her first master had a wife,” retorted my 
mother triumphantly. 

“ I had one once myself,” said the Vicar. 

The argument, with which his widowhood sup- 
plied the Vicar, was sound and unanswerable, and 
it suited well with my humour to learn from my 
aunt’s cook- maid, and wait patiently on fate. But 
what avails an argument, be it ever so sound, 
against an empty purse ? It was declared that I 
must seek my fortune ; yet on the method of my 
search some difference arose. 

“You must work, Simon,” said my sister Lucy, 
who was betrothed to Justice Barnard, a young 
squire of good family and high repute, but mighty 
hard on idle vagrants, and free with the stocks for 
revellers. 

“You must pray for guidance,” said my sister 
Mary, who was to wed a saintly clergyman, a 
Prebend, too, of the Cathedral. 

“ There is,” said I stoutly, “ nothing of such 
matters in Betty Nasroth’s prophecy.” 

6 


THE CHILD OF PROPHECY 


“ They are taken for granted, dear boy,” said my 
mother gently. 

The Vicar rubbed his nose. 

Yet not these excellent and zealous counsellors 
proved right, but the Vicar and I. For had I gone 
to Ijondon as they urged, instead of abiding where 
I was, agreeably to the Vicar s argument and my 
own inclination, it is a great question whether the 
plague would not have proved too strong for Betty 
Nasroth, and her prediction gone to lie with me in 
a death-pit. As things befell, I lived, hearing only 
dimly and, as it were, from afar-off of that great 
calamity, and of the horrors that beset the city. 
For the disease did not come our way, and we 
moralised on the sins of the townsfolk with sound 
bodies and contented minds. We were happy in 
our health and in our virtue, and not disinclined 
to applaud God’s judgment that smote our erring 
brethren; for too often the chastisement of one 
sinner feeds another’s pride. Yet the plague had 
a hand, and no small one, in that destiny of mine, 
although it came not near me ; for it brought fresh 
tenants to those same rooms in the gardener’s 
cottage where the Vicar had dwelt till the loyal 
Parliament’s Act proved too hard for the conscience 
of our Independent minister, and the Vicar, nothing 
loth, moved back to his parsonage. 

Now I was walking one day, as I had full licence 
and leave to walk, in the avenue of Quinton Manor, 
when I saw, first, what I had (if I am to tell the 
truth) come to see, to wit, the figure of young 
Mistress Barbara, daintily arrayed in a white sum- 
mer gown. Barbara was pleased to hold herself 
haughtily towards me, for she was an heiress, and 
of a house that had not fallen in the world as mine 
7 


SIMON DALE 


had. Yet we were friends ; for we sparred and 
rallied, she giving offence and I taking it, she par- 
doning my rudeness and I accepting forgiveness ; 
while my lord and my lady, perhaps thinking me 
too low for fear and yet high enough for favour, 
showed me much kindness ; my lord, indeed, would 
often jest with me on the great fate foretold me in 
Betty Nasroth’s prophecy. 

“Yet,” he would say, with a twinkle in his eye, 
“the King has strange secrets, and there is some 
strange wine in his cup, and to love where he loves 

” ; but at this point the Vicar, who chanced to 

be by, twinkled also, but shifted the conversation 
to some theme which did not touch the King, his 
secrets, his wine, or where he loved. 

Thus then I saw, as I say, the slim tall figure, 
the dark hair, and the proud eyes of Barbara 
Quinton ; and the eyes were flashing in anger as 
their owner turned away from — what I had not 
looked to see in Barbara s company. This was 
another damsel, of lower stature and plumper 
figure, dressed full as prettily as Barbara herself, 
and laughing with most merry lips and under eyes 
that half hid themselves in an eclipse of mirth. 
When Barbara saw me, she did not, as her custom 
was, feign not to see me till I thrust my presence 
on her, but ran to me at once, crying very indig- 
nantly, “ Simon, who is this girl ? She has dared 
to tell me that my gown is of country make and 
hangs like an old smock on a beanpole.” 

“ Mistress Barbara,” I answered, “ who heeds 
the make of the gown when the wearer is of divine 
make ? ” I was young then, and did not know that 
to compliment herself at the expense of her apparel 
is not the best way to please a woman. 

8 


THE CHILD OF PROPHECY 


“You are silly,” said Barbara. ‘‘ Who is she ? ” 

“ The girl,” said I, crestfallen, “ is, they tell me, 
from London, and she lodges with her mother in 
your gardener s cottage. But I didn’t look to find 
her here in the avenue.” 

“ You shall not again if I have my way,” said 
Barbara. Then she added abruptly and sharply, 
“ Why do you look at her ? ” 

Now, it was true that I was looking at the 
stranger, and on Barbara’s question I looked the 
harder. 

“ She is mighty pretty,” said I. “ Does she not 
seem so to you. Mistress Barbara ? ” And, simple 
though I was, I spoke not altogether in simplicity. 

“ Pretty ? ” echoed Barbara. “ And pray what 
do you know of prettiness. Master Simon? ” 

“ What I have learnt at Quinton Manor,” I 
answered, with a bow. 

“ That doesn’t prove her pretty,” retorted the 
angry lady. 

“ There’s more than one way of it,” said I dis- 
creetly, and I took a step towards the visitor, who 
stood some ten yards from us, laughing still and 
plucking a flower to pieces in her fingers. 

“ She isn’t known to you? ” asked Barbara, per- 
ceiving my movement. 

“ I can remedy that,” said I, smiling. 

Never since the world began had youth been a 
more faithful servant to maid than I to Barbara 
Quinton. Yet because, if a man lie down, the best 
of girls will set her pretty foot on his neck, and also 
from my love of a thing that is new, I was thor- 
oughly resolved to accost the gardener’s guest ; and 
my purpose was not altered by Barbara s scornful 
toss of her httle head as she turned away. 

9 


SIMON DALE 


“ It is no more than civility,” I protested, ‘‘to 
ask after her health, for, coming from London, she 
can but just have escaped the plague.” 

Barbara tossed her head again, declaring plainly 
her opinion of my excuse. 

“ But if you desire me to walk with you ” I 

began. 

“ There is nothing I thought of less,” she inter- 
rupted. “ I came here to be alone.” 

“ My pleasure lies in obeying you,” said I, and I 
stood bareheaded while Barbara, without another 
glance at me, walked off towards the house. Half 
penitent, yet wholly obstinate, I watched her go ; she 
did not once look over her shoulder. Had she — 
but a truce to that. What passed is enough ; with 
what might have, my story would stretch to the 
world’s end. I smothered my remorse, and went up 
to the stranger, bidding her good-day in my most 
polite and courtly manner ; she smiled, but at what 
I knew not. She seemed little more than a child, 
sixteen years old or seventeen at the most, yet there 
was no confusion in her greeting of me. Indeed, 
she was most marvellously at her ease, for, on 
my salute, she cried, lifting her hands in feigned 
amazement, 

“ A man, by my faith ; a man in this place ! ” 

W ell pleased to be called a man, I bowed again. 

“ Or at least,” she added, “ what will be one, if it 
please Heaven.” 

“You may live to see it without growing 
wrinkled,” said I, striving to conceal my annoy- 
ance. 

“ And one that has repartee in him ! Oh, mar- 
vellous ! ” 

“ We do not all lack wit in the country, madame,” 
10 


THE CHILD OF PROPHECY 


said I, simpering as I supposed the Court gallants 
to simper, “ nor, since the plague came to London, 
beauty.” 

“ Indeed, it’s wonderful,” she cried in mock ad- 
miration. “Do they teach such sayings here- 
abouts, sir ? ” 

“ Even so, madame, and from such books as your 
eyes furnish.” And for all her air of mockery, I 
was, as I remember, much pleased with this speech. 
It had come from some well-thumbed romance, I 
doubt not. I was always an eager reader of such 
silly things. 

She curtseyed low, laughing up at me with 
roguish eyes and mouth. 

“ Now, surely, sir,” she said, ‘‘ you must be Simon 
Dale, of whom my host the gardener speaks ? ” 

“ It is my name, madame, at your service. But 
the gardener has played me a trick ; for now I have 
nothing to give in exchange for your name.” 

“Nay, you have a very pretty nosegay in your 
hand, ” said she. “ I might be persuaded to barter 
my name for it.” 

The nosegay that was in my hand I had gathered 
and brought for Barbara Quinton, and I still meant 
to use it as a peace-offering. But Barbara had 
treated me harshly, and the stranger looked long- 
ingly at the nosegay. 

“The gardener is a niggard with his flowers,” she 
said with a coaxing smile. 

“ To confess the truth,” said I, wavering in my 
purpose, “ the nosegay was plucked for another. 

“It will smell the sweeter,” she cried, with a laugh. 
“Nothing gives flowers such a perfume.” And 
she held out a wonderfully small hand towards my 
nosegay. 


11 


SIMON DALE 


“ Is that a London lesson ? ” I asked, holding the 
flowers away from her grasp. 

“ It holds good in the country also, sir ; wherever, 
indeed, there is a man to gather flowers and more 
than one lady who loves smelling them.” 

‘‘Well,” said I, “the nosegay is yours at the 
price,” and I held it out to her. 

“ The price ? What, you desire to know my 
name ? ’ ’ 

“Unless, indeed, I may call you one of my own 
choosing,” said I, with a glance that should have 
been irresistible. 

“Would you use it in speaking of me to Mistress 
Barbara there? No, I’ll give you a name to call 
me by. You may call me Cydaria.” 

“ Cydaria ! A fine name ! ” 

“It is,” said she carelessly, “as good as any 
other.” 

“ But is there no other to follow it ? ” 

“When did a poet ask two names to head his 
sonnet? And surely you wanted mine for a 
sonnet ? ’ ’ 

“ So be it, Cydaria,” said I. 

“ So be it, Simon. And is not Cydaria as pretty 
as Barbara ? ” 

“ It has a strange sound,” said I, “but it’s well 
enough.” 

“ And now — the nosegay ! ” 

“I must pay a reckoning for this,” I sighed; 
but since a bargain is a bargain I gave her the 
nosegay. 

She took it, her face all alight with smiles, and 
buried her nose in it. I stood looking at her, caught 
by her pretty ways and graceful boldness. Boy 
though I was, I had been right in telling her that 
12 


THE CHILD OF PROPHECY 


there are many ways of beauty ; here were two to 
start with, hers and Barbara’s. She looked up and, 
finding my gaze on her, made a little grimace as 
though it were only what she had expected and gave 
her no more concern than pleasure. Yet at such a 
look Barbara would have turned cold and distant 
for an hour or more. Cydaria, smiling in scornful 
indulgence, dropped me another mocking curtsey, 
and made as though she would go her way. Yet 
she did not go, but stood with her head half averted, 
a glance straying towards me from the corner of 
her eye, while with her tiny foot she dug the gravel 
of the avenue. 

“ It is a lovely place, this park,” said she. “ But, 
indeed, it’s often hard to find the way about it.” 

I was not backward to take her hint. 

“ If you had a guide now ” I began. 

‘‘ Why, yes, if I had a guide, Simon,” she whis- 
pered gleefully. 

“You could find the way, Cydaria, and your 
guide would be most ” 

“ Most charitably engaged. But then ” She 

paused, drooping the corners of her mouth in sudden 
despondency. 

“ But what then ? ” 

“ Why then. Mistress Barbara would be alone.” 

I hesitated. I glanced towards the house. I 
looked at Cydaria. 

“ She told me that she wished to be alone,” 
said I. 

“ No ? How did she say it ? ” 

“ I will tell you all about that as we go along,” 
said I, and Cydaria laughed again. 


2 


13 


CHAPTER II 


THE WAY OF YOUTH 

The debate is years old ; not indeed quite so old 
as the world, since Adam and Eve cannot, for want 
of opportunity, have fallen out over it, yet descend- 
ing to us from unknown antiquity. But it has 
never been set at rest by general consent : the 
quarrel over Passive Obedience is nothing to it. 

It seems such a small matter though ; for the de- 
bate I mean turns on no greater question than this : 
may a man who owns allegiance to one lady justify 
by any train of reasoning his conduct in snatching 
a kiss from another, this other being (for it is im- 
portant to have the terms right) not (so far as can 
be judged) unwilling ? I maintained that he might ; 
to be sure, my position admitted of no other argu- 
ment, and, for the most part, it is a man’s state 
which determines his arguments and not his reasons 
that induce his state. Barbara declared that he 
could not ; though, to be sure, it was, as she added 
most promptly, no concern of hers ; for she cared 
not whether I were in love or not, nor how deeply, 
nor with whom, nor, in a word, anything at all 
about the matter. It was an abstract opinion she 
gave, so far as love, or what men chose to call j 
such, might be involved ; as to seemliness, she must j 
confess that she had her view, with which, may be, 
Mr. Dale was not in agreement. The girl at the 
gardener’s cottage must, she did not doubt, agree 
wholly with Mr. Dale; how otherwise would she 
14 


THE WAY OF YOUTH 


have suffered the kiss in an open space in the park, 
where anybody might pass — and where, in fact (by 
the most perverse chance in the world), pretty Mis- 
tress Barbara herself passed at the moment when 
the thing occurred ? However, if the matter could 
ever have had the smallest interest for her — save in 
so far as it touched the reputation of the village and 
might afford an evil example to the village maidens 
— it could have none at all now, seeing that she set 
out the next day to London, to take her place as 
Maid of Honour to Her Royal Highness the 
Duchess, and would have as little leisure as incli- 
nation to think of Mr. Simon Dale or of how he 
chose to amuse himself when he believed that none 
was watching. Not she had watched : her presence 
was the purest and most unwelcome chance. Yet 
she could not but be glad to hear that the girl was 
soon to go back whence she came, to the great re- 
lief (she was sure) of Madame Dale and of her dear 
friends Lucy and Mary ; to her love for whom noth- 
ing — no, nothing — should make any difference. For 
the girl herself she wished no harm, but she conceived 
that her mother must be ill at ease concerning her. 

It will be allowed that Mistress Barbara had the 
most of the argument if not the best. Indeed, I 
found little to say, except that the village would be 
the worse by so much as the Duchess of York was 
the better for Mistress Barbara’s departure ; the 
civility won me nothing but the haughtiest curtsey 
and a taunt. 

“ Must you rehearse your pretty speeches on me 
before you venture them on your friends, sir ? ” she 
asked. 

“lam at your mercy. Mistress Barbara,”! pleaded. 
“ Are we to part enemies ? ” 

15 


SIMON DALE 


She made me no answer, but I seemed to see a 
softening in her face as she turned away towards the 
window, whence were to be seen the stretch of the 
lawn and the park-meadows beyond. I believe that 
with a little more coaxing she would have pardoned 
me, but at the instant, by another stroke of per- 
versity, a small figure sauntered across the sunny 
fields. The fairest sights may sometimes come 
amiss. 

“ Cydaria ! A fine name ! ” said Barbara, with 
curling lip. “ I’ll wager she has reasons for giving 
no other.” 

Her mother gives another to the gardener,” I 
reminded her meekly. 

“Names are as easy given as — as kisses! ” she re- 
torted. ‘‘As for Cydaria, my lord says it is a name 
out of a play.” 

All this while we had stood at the window, watch- | 
ing Cydaria’s light feet trip across the meadow, and 
her bonnet swing wantonly in her hand. But now 
Cydaria disappeared among the trunks of the beech 
trees. 

“ See, she has gone,” said I in a whisper. “ She 
is gone. Mistress Barbara.” 

Barbara understood what I would say, but she 
was resolved to show me no gentleness. The soft 
tones of my voice had been for her, but she would 
not accept their homage. 

“You need not sigh for that before my face,” 
said she. “ And yet, sigh if you will. What is it 
to me ? But she is not gone far, and, doubtless, 
will not run too fast when you pursue.” 

“ When you are in London,” said I, “you will 
think with remorse how ill you used me.” 

“I shall never think of you at all. Do you 
16 


THE WAY OF YOUTH 


forget that there are gentlemen of wit and breeding 
at the Court ? ” 

“ The devil fly away with every one of them I” 
cried I suddenly, not knowing then how well the 
better part of them would match their escort. 

Barbara turned to me ; there was a gleam of 
triumph in the depths of her dark eyes. 

“ Perhaps when you hear of me at Court,” she 
cried, “ you’ll be sorry to think how ” 

But she broke off suddenly, and looked out of 
the window. 

You’ll find a husband there,” I suggested 
bitterly. 

Like enough,” said she carelessly. 

To be plain, I was in no happy mood. Her 
going grieved me to the heart, and that she should 
go thus incensed stung me yet more. I was 
jealous of every man in London town. Had not 
my argument, then, some reason in it after all ? 

‘‘ Fare-you-well, madame,” said I, with a heavy 
frovm and a sweeping bow. No player from the 
Lane could have been more tragic. 

‘ ‘ Fare-you-well, sir. I will not detain you, for 
you have, I know, other farewells to make.” 

“ Not for a week yet! ” I cried, goaded to a show 
of exultation that Cydaria stayed so long. 

I don’t doubt that you’ll make good use of the 
time, ” she said, as with a fine dignity she waved 
me to the door. Girl as she was, she had caught or 
inherited the grand air that great ladies use. 

Gloomily I passed out, to fall into the hands of 
my lord, who was walking on the terrace. He 
caught me by the arm, laughing in good-humoured 
mockery. 

‘‘ You’ve had a touch of sentiment, eh, you 
17 


SIMON DALE 


rogue?” said he. “Well, there’s little harm in 
that, since the girl leaves us to-morrow.” 

“ Indeed, my lord, there was little harm,” said I, 
long-faced and rueful. “ As little as my lady her- 
self could wish.” (At this he smiled and nodded.) 
“ Mistress Barbara will hardly so much as look at 
me.” 

He grew graver, though the smile still hung 
about his lips. 

“ They gossip about you in the village, Simon,” 
said he. “ Take a friend’s counsel, and don’t be so 
much with the lady at the cottage. Come, I don’t 
speak without reason.” He nodded at me as a man 
nods who means more than he will say. Indeed, 
not a word more would he say, so that when I left 
him I was even more angry th an when I parted 
from his daughter. And, the nature of man being 
such as Heaven has made it, what need to say that 
I bent my steps to the cottage with all convenient 
speed ? The only weapon of an iU-used lover (nay, 
I will not argue the merits of the case again) was 
ready to my hand. 

Yet my impatience availed httle; for there, on 
the seat that stood by the door, sat my good friend 
the Vicar, discoursing in pleasant leisure with the 
lady who named herself Cydaria. 

“ It is true,” he was saying. “ I fear it is true, 
though you’re over young to have learnt it.” 

“ There are schools, sir,” she returned, with a 
smile that had (or so it seemed to me) a touch — no 
more — of bitterness in it, “ where such lessons are 
early learnt.” 

“They are best let alone, those schools,” said he. 

“And what’s the lesson?” I asked, drawing 
nearer. 


18 


THE WAY OF YOUTH 


Neither answered. The Vicar rested his hands 
on the ball of his cane, and suddenly began to 
relate old Betty Nasroth’s prophecy to his com- 
panion. I cannot tell what led his thoughts to it, 
but it was never far from his mind when I was 
by. She listened with attention, smiling brightly 
in whimsical amusement when the fateful words, 
pronounced with due solemnity, left the Vicar’s 
lips. 

‘‘ It is a strange saying, ” he ended, ‘‘ of which 
time alone can show the truth.” 

She glanced at me with merry eyes, yet with a 
new air of interest. It is strange the hold these 
superstitions have on all of us ; though surely 
future ages wiU outgrow such childishness. 

“ I don’t know what the prophecy means,” said 
she ; ‘‘ yet one thing at least would seem needful 
for its fulfilment — that Mr. Dale should become 
acquainted with the King.” 

‘ ‘ True ! ” cried the Vicar eagerly. “ Everything 
stands on that, and on that we stick. For Simon 
cannot love where the King loves, nor know what 
the King hides, nor drink of the King’s cup, if he 
abide all his days here in Hatchstead. Come, 
Simon, the plague is gone ! ” 

“ Should I then be gone too ? ” I asked. “ But 
to what end ? I have no friends in London who 
would bring me to the notice of the King.” 

The Vicar shook his head sadly. I had no such 
friends, and the King had proved before now that 
he could forget many a better friend to the throne 
than my dear father’s open mind had made of 
him. 

“We must wait, we must wait still,” said the 
Vicar. “ Time will find a friend.” 

19 


SIMON DALE 


Cydaria had become pensive for a moment, but 
she looked up now, smiling again, and said to me : 

“You’ll soon have a friend in London.” 

Thinking of Barbara, I answered gloomily, 
“ She’s no friend of mine.” 

“ I did not mean whom you mean,” said Cy- 
daria, with twinkling eyes and not a whit put out. 
“ But I also am going to London.” 

I smiled, for it Sd not seem as though she 
would be a powerful friend, or able to open any 
way for me. But she met my smile with another 
so full of confidence and challenge that my atten- 
tion was wholly caught, and I did not heed the 
Vicar’s farewell as he rose and left us. 

“And would you serve me,” I asked, “if you 
had the power ? ” 

“Nay, put the question as you think it,” said 
she. “Would you have the power to serve me if 
you had the will ? Is not that the doubt in your 
mind ? ” 

“And if it were?” 

“ Then, indeed, I do not know how to answer ; 
but strange things happen there in London, and it 
maybe that some day even I should have some 
power.” 

“ And you would use it for me ? ” 

“ Could I do less on behalf of a gentleman who 
has risked his mistress’s favour for my poor cheek’s 
sake ? ” And she fell to laughing again, her mirth 
growing greater as I turned red in the face. “ You 
mustn’t blush when you come to town,” she cried, 

or they’ll make a ballad on you, and cry you in 
the streets for a monster.” 

“ The oftener comes the cause, the rarer shall the 
effect be,” said I. 


20 


THE WAY OF YOUTH 


“ The excuse is well put,” she conceded. “We 
should make a wit of you in town.” 

“What do you in town?” I asked squarely, 
looking her full in the eyes. 

“Perhaps, sometimes,” she laughed, “what I 
have done once — and to your good knowledge — 
since I came to the country.” 

Thus she would baffle me with jesting answers as 
often as I sought to find out who and what she 
was. Nor had I better fortune with her mother, 
for whom I had small liking, and who had, as it 
seemed, no more for me. For she was short in her 
talk, and frowned to see me with her daughter. 
Yet she saw me, I must confess, often with Cy- 
daria in the next days, and I was often with 
Cydaria when she did not see me. For Barbara 
was gone, leaving me both sore and lonely, all in 
the mood to find comfort where I could, and to 
see manliness in desertion ; and there was a charm 
about the girl that grew on me insensibly and 
without my will until I came to love, not her (as I 
believed, forgetting that Love loves not to mark 
his boundaries too strictly) but her merry temper, 
her wit and cheerfulness. Moreover, these things 
were mingled and spiced with others, more attrac- 
tive than all to unfledged youth, an air of the 
world and a knowledge of life which piqued my 
curiosity, and sat (it seems so even to my later 
mind as I look back) with bewitching incongruity 
on the laughing child’s face and the unripe grace 
of girlhood. Her moods were endless, vying with 
one another in an ever undetermined struggle for 
the prize of greatest charm. For the most part 
she was merry, frank mirth passing into sly rail- 
lery; now and then she would turn sad, sighing, 
21 


SIMON DALE 


“ Heigho, that I could stay in the sweet innocent 
country ! ” Or again she would show or ape an 
uneasy conscience, whispering, “Ah, that I were 
like your Mistress Barbara ! ” The next moment 
she would be laughing and jesting and mocking, as 
though life were nought but a great many-coloured 
bubble, and she the brightest-tinted gleam on it. 

Are women so constant and men so forgetful, 
that all sympathy must go from me and all esteem 
be forfeited because, being of the age of eighteen 
years, I vowed to live for one lady only on a Mon- 
day and was ready to die for another on the Satur- 
day? Look back; bow your heads, and give me 
your hands, to kiss or to clasp ! 

Let not you and I inquire 
What has been our past desire. 

On what shepherds you have smiled, 

Or what nymphs I have beguiled : 

Leave it to the planets too 
What we shall hereafter do ; 

For the joys we now may prove. 

Take advice of present love. 

Nay, I will not set my name to that in its ful- 
ness; Mr. Waller is a little too free for one who 
has been nicknamed a Puritan to follow him to the 
end. Yet there is a truth in it. Deny it, if you 
will. You are smiling, madame, while you deny. 

It was a golden summer’s evening when I, to 
whom the golden world was all a hell, came by 
tryst to the park of Quinton Manor, there to bid 
Cydaria farewell. Mother and sisters had looked 
askance at me, the village gossiped, even the Vicar 
shook a kindly head. What cared I ? By 
Heaven, why was one man a nobleman and rich, 
while another had no money in his purse and but 
22 


THE WAY OF YOUTH 


one change to his back? Was not love all in all, 
and why did Cydaria laugh at a truth so manifest ? 
There she was under the beech tree, with her sweet 
face screwed up to a burlesque of grief, her little 
hand lying on her hard heart as though it beat for 
me, and her eyes the playground of a thousand 
quick expressions. I strode up to her, and caught 
her by the hand, saying no more than just her 
name, “ Cydaria.” It seemed that there was no 
more to say ; yet she cried, laughing and reproach- 
ful, “ Have you no vows for me? Must I go with- 
out my tribute? ” 

I loosed her hand and stood away from her. On 
my soul, I could not speak. I was tongue-tied, 
dumb as a dog. 

“ When you come courting in London,” she said, 
you must not come so empty of lover’s baggage. 
There ladies ask vows, and protestations, and de- 
spair, ay, and poetry, and rhapsodies, and I know 
not what.” 

“ Of all these I have nothing but despair,” said I. 

“ Then you make a sad lover,” she pouted. “ And 
I am glad to be going where lovers are less woe- 
begone.” 

“You look for lovers in London?” I cried, I 
that had cried to Barbara — well, I have said my 
say on that. 

“ If Heaven send them,” answered Cydaria. 

“ And you wiU forget me ? ” 

‘‘In truth, yes, unless you come yourself to 
remind me. I have no head for absent lovers.” 

“ But if I come ” I began in a sudden flush 

of hope. 

She did not (though it was her custom) answer 
in raillery*' she plucked a leaf from the tree, and 
23 


SIMON DALE 

tore it with her fingers as she answered with a 
curious glance. 

“Why, if you come, I think you’ll wish that 
you had not come, unless, indeed, you’ve forgotten 
me before you come.” 

‘‘Forget you ! Never while I live ! May I 
come, Cydaria ? ’ ’ 

“ Most certainly, sir, so soon as your wardrobe 
and your purse allow. Nay, don’t be huffed. 
Come, Simon, sweet Simon, are we not friends, 
and may not friends rally one another? No, and 
if I choose, I will put my hand through your arm. 
Indeed, sir, you’re the first gentleman that ever 
thrust it away. See, it is there now ! Doesn’t it 
look well there, Simon — and feel well there, 
Simon ? ” She looked up into my face in coaxing 
apology for the hurt she had given me, and yet 
still with mockery of my tragic airs. “Yes, you 
must by all means come to London,” she went on, 
patting my arm. “Is not Mistress Barbara in 
London ? And I think — am I wrong, Simon ? — 
that there is something for which you will want to 
ask her pardon.” 

“ If I come to London, it is for you and you 
only that I shall come, ’ ’ I cried. 

“No, no. You will come to love where the 
King loves, to know what he hides, and to drink of 
his cup. I, sir, cannot interfere with your great 
destiny” ; she drew away from me, curtseyed low, 
and stood opposite to me, smiling. 

“ For you and for you only,” I repeated. 

“ Then will the King love me ? ” she asked. 

“God forbid,” said I fervently. 

“ Oh, and why, pray, your ‘ God forbid ’ ? You’re 
very ready with your ‘ God forbids.’ Am I then 

24 


THE WAY OF YOUTH 

to take your love sooner than the King’s, Master 
Simon ? ” 

“ Mine is an honest love,” said I soberly. 

“ Oh, I should dote on the country, if everybody 
didn’t talk of his honesty there ! I have seen the 
King in London and he is a fine gentleman.” 

“ And you have seen the Queen also, may be ? ” 

“ In truth, yes. Ah, I have shocked you, Simon ? 
Well, I was wrong. Come, we’re in the country ; 
we’ll be good. But when we’ve made a townsman 
of you, we’ll — we will be what they are in town. 
Moreover, in ten minutes I am going home, and it 
would be hard if I also left you in anger. You shall 
have a pleasanter memory of my going than Mis- 
tress Barbara gave you.” 

“ How shall I find you when I come to town ? ” 

“ Why, if you will ask any gentleman you meet 
whether he chances to remember Cydaria, you will 
find me as soon as it is well you should.” 

I prayed her to tell me more ; but she was re- 
solved to tell no more. 

“ See, it is late. I go,” said she. Then suddenly 
she came near to me. “ Poor Simon,” she said 
softly. “Yet it is good for you, Simon. Some 
day you will be amused at this, Simon ” ; she spoke 
as though she were fifty years older than I. My 
answer lay not in words or arguments. I caught 
her in my arms and kissed her. She struggled, 
yet she laughed. It shot through my mind then 
that Barbara would neither have struggled nor 
laughed. But Cydaria laughed. 

Presently I let her go, and kneeling on my knee 
kissed her hand very humbly, as though she had 
been what Barbara was. If she were not — and I 
knew not what she was — yet should my love exalt 
25 


SIMON DALE 


her and make a throne whereon she might sit a 
Queen. My new posture brought a sudden gravity 
to her face, and she bent over me with a smile that 
seemed now tender and almost sorrowful. 

“Poor Simon, poor Simon,” she whispered. 
‘‘ Kiss my hand now ; kiss it as though I were fit 
for worship. It will do you no harm, and — and 
perhaps — perhaps I shall like to remember it.” 
She bent down and kissed my forehead as I knelt 
before her. ‘ ‘ Poor Simon,” she whispered, as her 
hair brushed mine. Then her hand was gradually 
and gently withdrawn. I looked up to see her face ; 
her lips were smiling but there seemed a dew on 
her lashes. She laughed, and the laugh ended in a 
little gasp, as though a sob had fought with it. 
And she cried out loud, her voice ringing clear 
among the trees in the still evening air, 

“ That ever I should be so sore a fool ! ” 

Then she turned and left me, running swiftly 
over the grass, with never a look behind her. I 
watched till she was out of sight, and then sat 
down on the ground, with twitching lips and wide- 
open dreary eyes. 

Ah, for youth’s happiness 1 Alas for its dismal 
woe ! Thus she came into my life. 


26 


CHAPTER III 


THE MUSIC OF THE WORLD 

If a philosopher, learned in the human mind as 
Flamsteed in the courses of the stars or the great 
Newton in the laws of external nature, were to take 
one possessed by a strong passion of love or a bitter 
grief, or what overpowering emotion you will, and 
were to consider impartially and with cold precision 
what share of his time was in reality occupied by 
the thing which, as we are in the habit of saying, 
filled his thoughts or swayed his life or mastered 
his intellect, the world might well smile (and to my 
thinking had better smile than weep) at the issue 
of the investigation. When the first brief shock 
was gone, how few out of the solid twenty-four 
would be the hours claimed by the despot, however 
much the poets might call him insatiable. There 
is sleeping, and meat and drink, the putting on and 
off of raiment and the buying of it. If a man be 
of sound body, there is his sport ; if he be sane, 
there are the interests of this life and provision for 
the next. And if he be young, there is nature’s 
own joy in living, which with a patient scornful 
smile sets aside his protest that he is vowed to 
misery, and makes him, willy-nilly, laugh and sing. 
So that, if he do not drown himself in a week and 
thereby balk the inquiry, it is odds that he will com- 
pose himself in a month, and by the end of a year 
will carry no more marks of his misfortune than (if 
he be a man of good heart) an added sobriety and 
27 


SIMON DALE 


tenderness of spirit. Yet all this does not hinder 
the thing from returning, on occasion given. 

In my own case — and, if my story be followed 
to its close, I am persuaded that I shall not be held 
to be one who took the disease of love more lightly 
than my fellows — ^this process of convalescence, 
most salutary, yet in a sense humiliating, was aided 
by a train of circumstances, in which my mother 
saw the favour of Heaven to our family and the 
Vicar the working of Betty Nasroth’s prophecy. 
An uncle of my mother’s had some forty years ago 
estabhshed a manufactory of wool at Norwich, and 
having kept always before his eyes the truth that 
men must be clothed, howsoever they may think 
on matters of Church and State, and that it is a 
cloth- weaver’s business to clothe them and not to 
think for them, had lived a quiet life through all 
the disturbances and had prospered greatly in his 
trade. For marriage either time or inclination had 
failed him, and, being now an old man, he felt a 
favourable disposition towards me, and declared the 
intention of making me heir to a considerable por- 
tion of his fortune provided that I showed myself 
worthy of such kindness. The proof he asked was 
not beyond reason, though I found cause for great 
lamentation in it ; for it was that, in lieu of seeking 
to get to London, I should go to Norwich and live 
there with him, to solace his last years and, al- 
though not engaged in his trade, learn by observa- 
tion something of the serious occupations of life 
and of the condition of my fellow-men, of which 
things young gentlemen, said he, were for the most 
part sadly ignorant. Indeed, they were, and they 
thought no better of a companion for being wiser ; 
to do anything or know anything that might re- 
28 


THE MUSIC OF THE WORLD 


dound to the benefit of man or the honour of God 
was not the mode in those days. Nor do I say 
that the fashion has changed greatly, no, nor that 
it will change. Therefore to Norwich I went, al- 
though reluctantly, and there I stayed fully three 
years, applying myself to the comforting of my 
uncle’s old age, and consoling my leisure with the 
diversions which that great and important city 
afforded, and which, indeed, were enough for any 
rational mind. But reason and youth are bad bed- 
fellows, and all the while I was like the Israelites 
in the wilderness ; my thoughts were set upon the 
Promised Land and I endured my probation hard- 
ly. To this mood I set down the fact that little of 
my life at Norwich lives in my memory, and to 
that little I seldom recur in thought ; the time 
before it and the time after engross my backward 
glances. The end came with my uncle’s death, 
whereat I, the recipient of great kindness from him, 
sincerely grieved, and that with some remorse, 
since I had caused him sorrow by refusing to take 
up his occupation as my own, preferring my liberty 
and a moderate endowment to all his fortune sad- 
dled with the condition of passing my days as a 
cloth-weaver. Had I chosen otherwise, I should 
have lived a more peaceful and died a richer man. 
Yet I do not repent ; not riches nor peace, but the 
stir of the blood, the work of the hand, and the 
service of the brain make a life that a man can look 
back on without shame and with dehght. 

I was nearing my twenty-second birthday when 
I returned to Hatchstead with an air and manner, 
I doubt not, sadly provincial, but with a lining to 
my pocket for whose sake many a gallant would 
have surrendered some of his plumes and feathers. 

3 29 


SIMON DALE 


Three thousand pounds, invested in my uncle’s 
business and returning good and punctual profit, 
made of Simon Dale a person of far greater im- 
portance in the eyes of his family than he had been 
three years ago. It was a competence on which a 
gentleman could live with discretion and modesty, 
it was a step from which his foot could rise higher 
on life’s ladder. London was in my power, all it 
held of promise and possibility was not beyond the 
flight of my soaring mind. My sisters exchanged 
sharp admonitions for admiring deference, and my 
mother feared nothing save that the great place to 
which I was now surely destined might impair the 
homely virtues which she had instilled into me. 
As for the Vicar, he stroked his nose and glanced 
at me with an eye which spoke so plainly of Betty 
Nasroth that I fell to laughing heartily. 

Thus, being in great danger of self-exaltation, I 
took the best medicine that I could — although by 
no means with intention — in waiting on my lord 
Quinton, who was then residing at the Manor. 
Here my swelled spirit was smartly pricked, and 
sank soon to its true proportions. I was no great 
man here, and although my lord received me very 
kindly, he had less to say on the richness of my 
fortune than on the faults of my manner and the 
rustic air of my attire. Yet he bade me go to 
London, since there a man, rubbing shoulders with 
all the world, learnt to appraise his own value, and 
lost the ignorant conceit of himself that a village 
greatness is apt to breed. Somewhat crestfallen, 
I thanked him for his kindness, and made bold to 
ask after Mistress Barbara. 

“ She is well enough,” he answered, smiling. 
“ And she is become a great lady. The wits make 

30 


THE MUSIC OF THE WORLD 


epigrams on her, and the fools address verses to her. 
But she’s a good girl, Simon.” 

I’m sure of it, my lord,” I cried. 

“ He’s a bold man who would be sure of it con- 
cerning anyone nowadays,” he said dryly. “ Yet 
so, thank God, it is. See, here’s a copy of the 
verses she had lately,” and he flung me the paper. 
I glanced over it and saw much about “ dazzling 
ice,” “unmelting snow,” “Venus,” “Diana,” and 
so forth. 

‘ ‘ It seems sad stuff, my lord,” said I. 

“ Why, yes,” he laughed ; “ but it is by a gentle- 
man of repute. Take care you write none worse, 
Simon.” 

“ Shall I have the honour of waiting on Mistress 
Barbara, my lord ? ” I asked. 

“ As to that, Simon, we will see when you come. 
Yes, we must see what company you keep. For 
example, on whom else do you think of waiting 
when you are set up in London ? ” 

He looked steadily at me, a slight frown on his 
brow, yet a smile, and not an unkind one, on his 
lips. I grew hot, and knew that I grew red also. 

“ I am acquainted with few in London, my lord,” 
I stammered, “ and with those not well.” 

“ Those not well, indeed,” he echoed, the pucker 
deepening and the smile vanishing. Yet the smile 
came again as he rose and clapped me on the 
shoulder. 

“You’re an honest lad, Simon,” he said, ‘‘even 
though it may have pleased God to make you a 
silly one. And, by Heaven, who would have all 
lads wise? Go to London, learn to know more 
folk, learn to know better those whom you know. 
Bear yourself as a gentleman, and remember, 
31 


SIMON DALE 

Simon, whatsoever else the King may be, yet he 
is the King.” 

Saying this with much emphasis, he led me gently 
to the door. 

“ Why did he say that about the King ? ” I pon- 
dered as I walked homeward through the park; 
for although wLat we all, even in the country, 
knew of the King gave warrant enough for the 
words, my lord had seemed to speak them to me 
with some special meaning, and as though they con- 
cerned me more than most men. Yet what, if I 
left aside Betty’s foolish talk, as my lord surely did, 
had I to do with the King, or with what he might 
be besides the King ? 

About this time much stir had been aroused in 
the country by the dismissal from all his offices of 
that great Minister and accomplished writer, the 
Earl of Clarendon, and by the further measures 
which his enemies threatened against him. The 
village elders were wont to assemble on the days 
when the post came in and discuss eagerly the news 
brought from London. The affairs of Government 
troubled my head very little, but in sheer idleness 
I used often to join them, wondering to see them 
so perturbed at the happening of things which 
made mighty little difference in our retired corner. 
Thus I was in the midst of them at the King and 
Crown Tavern, on the Green, two days after I had 
talked with my lord Quinton. I sat with a mug 
of ale before me, engrossed in my own thoughts 
and paying little heed to what passed, when, to my 
amazement, the postman, leaping from his horse, 
came straight across to me, holding out in his hand 
a large packet of important appearance. To receive 
a letter was a rare event in my life, and a rarer 
32 


THE MUSIC OF THE WORLD 

followed, setting the cap on my surprise. For the 
man, though he was fully ready to drink my health, 
demanded no money for the letter, saying that it 
came on the service of His Majesty and was not 
chargeable. He spoke low enough, and there was 
a babble about, but it seemed as though the name 
of the King made its way through all the hubbub 
to the Vicars ears; for he rose instantly, and, step- 
ping to my side, sat down by me, crying, 

“ What said he of the King, Simon ? ” 

“Why, he said,” I answered, “that this great 
letter comes to me on the King’s service, and that 
I have nothing to pay for it,” and I turned it over 
and over in my hands. But the inscription was 
plain enough. “To Master Simon Dale, Esquire, 
at Hatchstead, by Hatfield.” 

By this time half the company was round us, and 
my Lord Clarendon well-nigh forgotten. Small 
things near are greater than great things afar, and 
at Hatchstead my affairs were of more moment 
than the fall of a Chancellor or the King’s choice 
of new Ministers. A cry arose that I should open 
my packet and disclose what it contained. 

“ Nay,” said the Vicar, with an air of importance, 
“it may be on a private matter that the King 
writes.” 

They would have believed that of my lord at the 
Manor, they could not of Simon Dale. The Vicar 
met their laughter bravely. 

“ But the King and Simon are to have private 
matters between them one day,” he cried, shaking 
his fist at the mockers, himself half in mockery. 

Meanwhile I opened my packet and read. To 
this day the amazement its contents bred in me is 
fresh. For the purport was that the King, remem- 
33 


SIMON DALE 


bering my father’s services to the King’s father (and 
forgetting, as it seemed, those done to General 
Cromwell), and being informed of my own loyal 
disposition, courage, and good parts, had been gra- 
ciously pleased to name me to a commission in His 
Majesty’s Regiment of Life Guards, such com- 
mission being post-dated six months from the day 
of writing, in order that Mr. Dale should have the 
leisure to inform himself of his duties and fit him- 
self for his post; to which end it was the King’s 
further pleasure that Mr. Dale should present him- 
self, bringing this same letter with him, without 
delay at Whitehall, and there be instructed in his 
drill and in all other matters necessary for him to 
know. Thus the letter ended, with a commendation 
of me to the care of the Almighty. 

I sat gasping ; the gossips gaped round me ; the 
Vicar seemed stunned. At last somebody grumbled, 

“I do not love these Guards. What need of 
guard has the King except in the love of his sub- 
jects?” 

“ So his father found, did he ? ” cried the Vicar, 
all aflame in a moment. 

“ The Life Guards ! ” I murmured. “ It is the 
first regiment of all in honour.” 

“Ay, my lad,” said the Vicar. “ It would have 
been well enough for you to serve in the ranks of 
it, but to hold His Majesty’s Commission ! ” 
Words failed him, and he flew to the landlord’s 
snuff-box, which that good man, moved by subtle 
sympathy, held out, pat to the occasion. 

Suddenly those words of my lord’s that had at 
the time of their utterance caught my attention so 
strongly flashed into my mind, seeming now to 
find their explanation. If there were fault to be 
34 


THE MUSIC OF THE WORLD 


found in the King, it did not lie with his own ser- 
vants and officers to find it; I was now of his 
household ; my lord must have known what was on 
the way to me from London when he addressed me 
so pointedly ; and he could know only because he 
had himself been the mover in the matter. I 
sprang up and ran across to the Vicar, crying, 

“ Why, it is my lord’s kindness ! He has spoken 
for me.” 

“ Ay, ay, it is my lord,” was grunted and nodded 
round the circle in the satisfaction of a discovery 
obvious so soon as made. The Vicar alone dis- 
sented; he took another pinch and wagged his 
head petulantly. 

“ I don’t think it’s my lord, ” said he. 

“ But why not, sir, and who else ? ” I urged. 

“ I don’t know, but I do not think it is my lord,” 
he persisted. 

Then I laughed at him, and he understood well 
that I mocked his dislike of a plain-sailing every- 
day account of anything to which it might be pos- 
sible by hook or crook to attach a tag of mystery. 
He had harped back to the prophecy, and would 
not have my lord come between him and his hobby. 

“You may laugh, Simon,” said he gravely. 
“ But it will be found to be as I say.” 

I paid no more heed to him, but caught up my 
hat from the bench, crying that I must run at once 
and offer thanks to my lord, for he was to set out 
for liOndon that day, and would be gone if I did 
not hasten. 

“At least,” conceded the Vicar, “you will do 
no harm by telling him. He will wonder as much 
as we.” 

Laughing again, I ran off and left the company 
35 


SIMON DALE 


crowding to a man round the stubborn Vicar. It 
was well indeed that I did not linger, for, having 
come to the Manor at my best speed, I found my 
lord’s coach already at the door and himself in 
cloak and hat about to step into it. But he waited 
to hear my breathless story, and, when I came to 
the pith of it, snatched my letter from my hand 
and read it eagerly. At first I thought he was 
playing a part and meant only to deny his kindness 
or delay the confession of it. His manner soon 
undeceived me ; he was in truth amazed, as the 
Vicar had predicted, but more than that, he was, 
if I read his face aright, sorely displeased also ; for 
a heavy frown gathered on his brow, and he walked 
with me in utter silence the better half of the 
length of the terrace. 

“ I have nothing to do with it,” he said bitterly. 
“ I and my family have done the King and his too 
much service to have the giving away of favours. 
Kings do not love their creditors, no, nor pay them.” 

“But, my lord, I can think of no other friend 
who would have such power.” 

“Can’t you ? ” he asked, stopping and laying his 
hand on my shoulder. “ May be, Simon, you don’t 
understand how power is come by in these days, 
nor what are the titles to the King’s confidence.” 

His words and manner dashed my new pride, 
and I suppose my face gi’ew glum, for he went 
on more gently. 

“ Nay, lad, since it comes, take it without ques- 
tion. Whatever the source of it, your own conduct 
may make it an honour.” 

But I could not be content with that. 

“ The letter says, ” I remarked, “ that the King is 
mindful of my father’s services.” 

36 


THE MUSIC OF THE WORLD 


“ I had thought that the age of miracles was 
past,” smiled my lord. “ Perhaps it is not, Simon.” 

“ Then if it be not for my father’s sake nor for 
yours, my lord, I am at a loss,” and I stuffed the 
letter into my pocket very peevishly. 

“ I must be on my way,” said my lord, turning 
towards the coach. “ Let me hear from you when 
you come, Simon ; and I suppose you will come 
soon now. You will find me at my house in 
Southampton Square, and my lady will be glad of 
your company.” 

I thanked him for his civility, but my face was 
still clouded. He had seemed to suspect and hint 
at some taint in the fountain of honour that had so 
unexpectedly flowed forth. 

“ I can’t tell what to make of it,” I cried. 

He stopped again, as he was about to set his 
foot on the step of his coach, and turned, facing 
me squarely. 

“ There’s no other friend at all in London, 
Simon? ” he asked. Again I grew red, as he stood 
watching me. ‘ ‘ Is there not one other ? ” 

I collected myself as well as I could and an- 
swered, 

“ One that would give me a commission in the 
Life Guards, my lord ? ” And I laughed in scorn. 

My lord shrugged his shoulders and mounted 
into the coach. I closed the door behind him, and 
stood waiting his reply. He leant forward and 
spoke across me to the lackey behind, saying, “ Go 
on, go on.” 

“ What do you mean, my lord ? ” I cried. He 
smiled, but did not speak. The coach began to 
move ; I had to walk to keep my place, soon I 
should have to run. 


37 


SIMON DALE 


“ My lord,” I cried, “ how could she ? 

My lord took out his snufF-box and opened it. 

“ Nay, I cannot tell how,” said he, as he carried 
his thumb to his nose. 

My lord,” I cried, running now, “do you know 
who Cydaria is ? ” 

My lord looked at me, as I ran panting. Soon 
I should have to give in, for the horses made merry 
play down the avenue. He seemed to wait for the 
last moment of my endurance before he answered. 
Then, waving his hand at the window, he said, 
“ All London knows.” And with that he shut the 
window, and I fell back breathless, amazed, and 
miserably chagrined. For he had told me nothing 
of all that I desired to know, and what he had 
told me did no more than inflame my curiosity 
most unbearably. Yet, if it were true, this mys- 
terious lady, known to all London, had remem- 
bered Simon Dale ! A man of seventy would 
have been moved by such a thing ; what wonder 
that a boy of twenty-two should run half mad 
with it ? 

Strange to say, it seemed to the Vicar’s mind no 
more unlikely and infinitely more pleasant that the 
King’s favour should be bound up with the lady 
we had called Cydaria than that it should be the 
plain fruit of my lord’s friendly offices. Presently 
his talk infected me with something of the same 
spirit, and we fell to speculating on the identity of 
this lady, supposing in our innocence that she must 
be of very exalted rank and noble station if indeed 
all London knew her and she had a voice in the 
appointment of gentlemen to bear His Majesty’s 
Commission. It was but a step farther to discern 
for me a most notable career, wherein the prophecy 
38 


THE MUSIC OF THE WORLD 


of Betty Nasroth should find fulfilment and prove 
the link that bound together a chain of strange 
fortune and high achievement. Thus our evening 
wore away and with it my vexation. Now I was 
all eager to be gone, to set my hand to my work, 
to try Fates promises, and to learn that piece of 
knowledge which all London had — the true name 
of her whom we called Cydaria. 

‘ ‘ Still,” said the Vicar, falling into a sudden 
pensiveness as I rose to take my leave, ‘‘ there are 
things above fortune’s favour, or a King’s, or a 
great lady’s. To those cling, Simon, for your 
name’s sake and for my credit, who taught you.” 

“True, sir,” said I in perfunctory acknowledg- 
ment, but with errant thoughts. “ I trust, sir, that 
I shall always bear myself as becomes a gentle- 
man.” 

“And a Christian,” he added mildly. 

“ Ay, sir, and a Christian,” I agreed readily 
enough. 

“ Go your way,” he said, with a little smile. “ I 
preach to ears that are full now of other and louder 
sounds, of strains more attractive and melodies 
more alluring. Therefore, now, you cannot listen ; 
nay, I know that, if you could, you would. Yet it 
may be that some day — if it be God’s will, soon — 
the strings that I feebly strike may sound loud and 
clear, so that you must hear, however sweetly that 
other music charms your senses. And if you hear, 
Simon, heed ; if you hear, heed.” 

Thus, with his blessing, I left him. He followed 
me to the door, with a smile on his lips but anxiety 
in his eyes. I went on my way, never looking 
back. For my ears were indeed filled with that 
strange and enchanting music. 

39 


CHAPTER IV 


CYDARIA REVEALED 

There, mounted on the coach at Hertford (for at 
last I am fairly on my way, and may boast that I 
have made short work of my farewells), a gentle- 
man apparently about thirty years of age, tall, well- 
proportioned, and with a thin face, clean-cut and 
high-featured. He was attended by a servant 
whom he called Robert, a stout ruddy fellow, who 
was very jovial with every post-boy and ostler on 
the road. The gentleman, being placed next to me 
by the chance of our billets, lost no time in opening 
the conversation, a step which my rustic backward- 
ness would long have delayed. He invited my confi- 
dence by a free display of his own, informing me that 
he was attached to the household of Lord Arling- 
ton, and was returning to London on his lordship’s 
summons. For since his patron had been called to 
the place of Secretary of State, he, Mr. Christopher 
Darrell (such was his name), was likely to be em- 
ployed by him in matters of trust, and thus fill a 
position which I must perceive to be of some im- 
portance. All this was poured forth with wonderful 
candour and geniality, and I, in response, opened 
to him my fortunes and prospects, keeping back 
nothing save the mention of Cydaria. Mr. Darrell 
was, or affected to be, astonished to learn that I 
was a stranger to London — my air smacked of the 
Mall and of no other spot in the world, he swore 
most politely — but made haste to offer me his serv- 
40 


CYDARIA REVEALED 


ices, proposing that, since Lord Arlington did not 
look for him that night, and he had abandoned his 
former lodging, we should lodge together at an inn 
he named in Covent Garden, when he could intro- 
duce me to some pleasant company. I accepted 
his offer most eagerly. Then he fell to talking of 
the Court, of the households of the King and the 
Duke, of Madame the Duchess of Orleans, who 
was soon to come to England, they said (on what 
business he did not know) ; next he spoke, although 
now with caution, of persons no less well known 
but of less high reputation, referring lightly to Lady 
Castlemaine and Eleanor Gwyn and others, while 
I listened, half-scandalised, half-pleased. But I 
called him back by askingwhether he were acquaint- 
ed with one of the Duchess’s ladies named Mis- 
tress Barbara Quinton. 

“ Surely,” he said. “There is no fairer lady at 
Court, and very few so honest.” 

I hurried to let him know that Mistress Barbara 
and I were old friends. He laughed as he answered, 
“ If you’d be more you must lose no time. It is 
impossible that she should refuse many more suitors, 
and a nobleman of great estate is now sighing for 
her so loudly as to be audible from Whitehall to 
Temple Bar. ” 

“ I heard the news with interest, with pride, and 
with a touch of jealousy ; but at this time my own 
fortunes so engrossed me that soon I harked back 
to them, and, taking my courage in both hands, 
was about to ask my companion if he had chanced 
ever to hear of Cydaria, when he gave a new turn 
to the talk, by asking carelessly, 

“ You are a Churchman, sir, I suppose? ” 

“ Why, yes,” I answered, with a smile, and per- 
41 


SIMON DALE 


haps a bit of a stare. “ What did you conceive me 
to be, sir ? — a Ranter, or a Papist? ” 

“Pardon, pardon, if you find offence in my 
question,” he answered, laughing. “ There are 
many men who are one or the other, you know.” 

“The country has learnt that to its sorrow,” 
said I sturdily. 

‘ ‘ Ay,” he said, in a dreamy way, “ and maybe 
will learn it again. ’ ’ And without more he fell to 
describing the famous regiment to which I was to 
belong, adding at the end : 

“ And if you like a brawl, the ’prentices in the 
City will always find one for a gentleman of the 
King’s Guards. Take a companion or two with 
you when you walk east of Temple Bar. By the 
way, sir, if the question may be pardoned, how 
came you by your commission ? For we know that 
merit, standing alone, stands generally naked also.” 

I was much inclined to tell him all the story, but 
a shamefacedness came over me. I did not know 
then how many owed all their advancement to a 
woman’s influence, and my manly pride disdained 
to own the obligation. I put him off by a story 
of a friend who wished to remain unnamed, and, 
after the feint of some indifferent talk, seized the 
chance of a short silence to ask him my great ques- 
tion. 

“ Pray, sir, have you ever heard of a lady who 
goes sometimes by the name of Cydaria ? ” said I. 
I fear my cheek flushed a little, do what I could to 
check such an exhibition of rawness. 

“ Cydaria ? Where have 1 heard that name ? 

No, I know nobody — and yet ” He paused; 

then, clapping his hand on his thigh, cried, ‘ ‘ By my 
faith, yes ; I was sure I had heard it. It is a name 


CYDARIA REVEALED 


from a play; from — from the ‘Indian Emperor.’ 
I think your lady must have been masquerading.” 

“ I thought as much,” I nodded, concealing my 
disappointment. 

He looked at me a moment with some curiosity, 
but did not press me further ; and, since we had 
begun to draw near London, I soon had my mind 
too full to allow me to think even of Cydaria. 
There is small profit in describing what every man 
can remember for himself — his first sight of the 
greatest city in the world, with its endless houses 
and swarming people. It made me still and silent 
as we clattered along, and I forgot my companion 
until I chanced to look towards him, and found an 
amused glance fixed on my face. But, as we 
reached the City, he began to point out where 
the fire had been, and how the task of rebuilding 
progressed. Again wonder and anticipation grew 
on me. 

“Yes,” said he, “it’s a fine treasure-house for a 
man who can get the key to it.” 

Yet, amazed as I was, I would not have it sup- 
posed that I was altogether an unlicked cub. My 
stay in Norwich, if it had not made me a Londoner, 
had rubbed off some of the plough-mud from me, 
and I believe that my new friend was not speaking 
wholly in idle compliment when he assured me that 
I should hold my own very well. The first lesson 
I learnt was not to show any wonder that I might 
feel, but to receive all that chanced as though it 
were the most ordinary thing in the world ; for this, 
beyond all, is the hall-mark of your quality. In- 
deed, it was well that I was so far fit to show my 
face, since I was to be plunged into the midst of the 
stream with a suddenness which startled, although 
43 


SIMON DALE 


it could not displease me. For the first beginning 
I was indebted to Mr. Darrell, for what followed 
to myself alone and a temper that has never been 
of the most patient. 

We had reached our inn and refreshed ourselves, 
and I was standing looking out on the evening and 
wondering at what time it was proper for me to 
seek my bed when my friend entered with an eager 
air, and advanced towards me, crying, 

“ Dear sir, I hope your wardrobe is in order, for 
I am resolved to redeem my word forthwith, and 
to-night to carry you with me to an entertainment 
for which I have received an invitation. I am most 
anxious for you to accompany me, as we shall meet 
many whom you should know.” 

I was, of course, full of excuses, but he would 
admit of one only; and that one I could not or 
would not make. For I had provided myself with 
a neat and proper suit, of which I was very far 
from ashamed, and which, when assumed by me and 
set off with a new cloak to match it, was declared 
by Mr. Darrell to be most apt for the occasion. 

“You lack nothing but a handsome cane,” said 
he, “ and that I can myself provide. Come, let us 
call chairs and be gone, for it grows late already.” 

Our host that evening was Mr. Jermyn, a gentle- 
man in great repute at Court, and he entertained 
us most handsomely at the New Spring Garden, 
according to me a welcome of especial courtesy, 
that I might be at my ease and feel no stranger 
among the company. He placed me on his left 
hand, Darrell being on my other side, while opposite 
to me sat my lord the Earl of Carford, a fine-look- 
ing man of thirty or a year or two above. Among 
the guests Mr. Darrell indicated several whose names 
44 


CYDARIA REVEALED 


were known to me, such as the witty Lord Roches- 
ter and the French Ambassador, M. de Cominges, 
a very stately gentleman. These, however, being at 
the other end of the table, I made no acquaint- 
ance with them, and contented myself with listen- 
ing to the conversation of my neighbours, putting in 
a word where I seemed able with propriety and 
without displaying an ignorance of which I was very 
sensible. It seemed to me that Lord Carford, to 
whom I had not been formally presented (indeed, 
all talked to one another without ceremony), re- 
ceived what I said with more than sufficient 
haughtiness and distance ; but on Darrell whisper- 
ing humorously that he was a great lord, and held 
himself even greater than he was, I made little of it, 
thinking my best revenge would be to give him a 
lesson in courtesy. Thus all went well till we had 
finished eating and sat sipping our wine. Then 
my Lord Carford, being a little overheated with 
what he had drunk, began suddenly to inveigh 
against the King with remarkable warmth and free- 
dom, so that it seemed evident that he smarted 
under some recent grievance. The raillery of our 
host, not too nice or delicate, soon spurred him to 
a discovery of his complaint. He asked nothing 
better than to be urged to a disclosure. 

“ Neither rank, nor friendship, nor service,” he 
said, smiting the table, ‘‘ are enough to gain the 
smallest favour from the King. All goes to the 
women ; they have but to ask to have. I prayed 
the King to give me for a cousin of mine a place in 
the Life Guards that was to be vacant, and he — by 
Heaven, he promised ! Then comes Nell, and Nell 
wants it for a friend — and Nell has it for a friend — 
and I go empty ! ” 

4 


45 


SIMON DALE 


I had started when he spoke of the Life Guards, 
and sat now in a state of great disturbance. Dar- 
rell also, as I perceived, was very uneasy, and made 
a hasty effort to alter the course of the conversa- 
tion ; but Mr. Jermyn would not have it. 

“ Who is the happy — the new happy man, that is 
Mistress Nell’s friend?” he asked, smihng. 

‘‘ Some clod from the country,” returned the Earl ; 
“ his name, they say, is Dale.” 

I felt my heart beating, but I trust that I looked 
cool enough as I leant across and said, 

“Your lordship is misinformed. I have the best 
of reasons for saying so.” 

“ The reasons may be good, sir,” he retorted with 
a stare, “ but they are not evident.” 

“ I am myself just named to a commission in the 
King’s Life Guards, and my name is Dale,” said I, 
restraining myself to a show of composure, for I felt 
Darrell’s hand on my arm. 

‘‘ By my faith, then, you’re the happy man,” 
sneered Carford. “ I congratulate you on 
your ” 

‘‘ Stay, stay, Carford,” interposed Mr. Jermyn. 

“ On your — godmother,” said Carford. 

“You’re misinformed, my lord,” I repeated 
fiercely, although by now a great fear had come 
upon me. I knew whom they meant by “ Nell.” 

“ By God, sir, I’m not misinformed,” said he. 

“ By God, my lord,” said I — though I had not 
been wont to swear — “ By God, my lord, you are.” 

Our voices had risen in anger; a silence fell on 
the party, all turning from their talk to listen to 
us. Carford’s face went red when I gave him the 
lie so directly and the more fiercely because, to my 
shame and wonder, I had begun to suspect that 

46 


CYDARIA REVEALED 


what he said was no lie. But I followed up the 
attack briskly. 

Therefore, my lord,” I said, “ I will beg of you 
to confess your error, and withdraw what you have 
said.” 

He burst into a laugh. 

“ If I weren’t ashamed to take a favour from 
such a hand, I wouldn’t be ashamed to own it,” 
said he. 

I rose from my seat and bowed to him gravely. 
All understood my meaning; but he, choosing to 
treat me with insolence, did not rise nor return my 
salute, but sat where he was, smiling scornfully. 

“ You don’t understand me, it seems, my lord,” 
said I. “ Maybe this will quicken your wits, ” and 
I flung the napkin which had been brought to me 
after meat lightly in his face. He sprang up 
quickly enough then, and so did all the company. 
Darrell caught me by the arm and held me fast. 
Jermyn was by Carford’s side. I hardly knew what 
passed, being much upset by the sudden quarrel, 
and yet more by the idea that Carford’s words had 
put in my head. I saw Jermyn come forward, and 
Darrell, loosing my arm, went and spoke to him. 
Lord Carford resumed his seat ; I leant against the 
back of my chair and waited. Darrell was not long 
in returning to me. 

‘‘ You’d best go home,” he said, in a low voice. 
“ I’ll arrange everything. You must meet to-mor- 
row morning.” 

I nodded my head ; I had gi*own cool and col- 
lected now. Bowing slightly to Carford, and low 
to my host and the company, I turned to the door. 
As I passed through it, I heard the talk break out 
again behind me. I got into my chair, which was 
47 


SIMON DALE 


waiting, and was carried back to my inn in a half- 
mazed state. I gave little thought to the quarrel 
or to the meeting that awaited me. My mind was 
engrossed with the revelation to which I had 
listened. I doubted it still; nay, 1 would not be- 
lieve it. Yet whence came the story unless it were 
true ? And it seemed to fit most aptly and most 
lamentably with what had befallen me, and to 
throw light on what had been a puzzle. It was 
hard on four years since I had parted from Cydaria ; 
but that night I felt that, if the thing were true, I 
should receive Carford’s point in my heart without 
a pang. 

Being, as may be supposed, little inclined for 
sleep, I turned in to the public room of the inn and 
called for a bottle of wine. The room was empty 
save for a lanky fellow, very plainly dressed, who 
sat at the table reading a book. He was drinking 
nothing, and when — my wine having been brought 
— I called in courtesy for a second glass and invited 
him to join me, he shook his head sourly. Yet 
presently he closed his book, which I now perceived 
to be a Bible, and fixed an earnest gaze on me. He 
was a strange-looking fellow ; his face w as very thin 
and long, and his hair (for he wore his own and no 
wig) hung straight from the crown of his head in 
stiff wisps. I set him down as a Ranter, and was in 
no way surprised when he began to inveigh against 
the evils of the times, and to prophesy the judg- 
ment of God on the sins of the city. 

“Pestilence hath come and fire hath come,” he 
cried. “ Yet wickedness is not put away, and lewd- 
ness vaunteth herself, and the long-suffering of God 
is abused.” 

All this seeming to me very tedious, I sipped 
48 


CYDARIA REVEALED 


my wine and made no answer. I had enough to 
think of, and was content to let the sins of the city 
alone. 

“ The foul superstition of Papacy raises its head 
again,” he went on, “and godly men are perse- 
cuted.” 

“Those same godly men,” said I, “have had 
their turn before now, sir. To many it seems as if 
they were only receiving what they gave.” For 
the fellow had roused me to some little temper by 
his wearisome cursing. 

“ But the Time of the Lord is at hand,” he pur- 
sued, ‘ ‘ and all men shall see the working of His 
wrath. Ay, it shall be seen even in palaces.” 

“ If I were you, sir,” said I dryly, “ I would not 
talk thus before strangers. There might be danger 
in it.” 

He scanned my face closely for a few moments ; 
then, leaning across towards me, he said earnestly: 

“You are young, and you look honest. Be 
warned in time; fight on the Lord’s side, and not 
among His enemies. Verily the time cometh.” 

1 had met many of these mad fellows, for the 
country was full of them, some being disbanded 
soldiers of the Commonwealth, some ministers who 
had lost their benefices; but this fellow seemed 
more crazy than any I had seen : though, indeed, I 
must confess there was a full measure of truth, if 
not of charity, in the description of the King’s 
Court on which he presently launched himself with 
great vigour of declamation and an intense, al- 
though ridiculous, exhibition of piety. 

“ You may be very right, sir ” 

“ My name is Phineas Tate.” 

“You may be very right, friend Phineas,” said 
49 


SIMON DALE 


I, yawning; “but I can’t alter all this. Go and 
preach to the King.” 

“ The King shall be preached to in words that 
he must hear,” he retorted with a frown, “but the 
time is not yet.” 

“The time now is to seek our beds,” said I, 
smiling. “ Do you lodge here ? ” 

“ For this night I lie here. To-morrow I preach 
to this city.” 

“ Then I fear you are likely to lie in a less com- 
fortable place to-morrow.” And bidding him 
good-night, I turned to go. But he sprang after 
me, crying, “ Remember, the time is short ” ; and 
I doubt whether I should have got rid of him had 
not Darrell at that moment entered the room. To 
my surprise, the two seemed to know one another, 
for Darrell broke into a scornful laugh, exclaim- 
ing: 

“ Again, Master Tate ! What, haven’t you left 
this accursed city to its fate yet ? ” 

“ It awaits its fate,” answered the Ranter sternly, 
“ even as those of your superstition wait theirs.” 

“ My superstition must look out for itself,” said 
Darrell, with a shrug; and, seeing that I was 
puzzled, he added, “Mr. Tate is not pleased with 
me because I am of the old religion. ” 

“ Indeed? ” I cried. “ I didn’t know you were 
a — of the old church.” For I remembered with 
confusion a careless remark that I had let fall as 
we journeyed together. 

“Yes,” said he simply. 

“Yes!” cried Tate. “You — and your master 
also, is he not ? ” 

Darrell’s face grew stern and cold. 

“ I would have you careful, sir, when you touch 
50 


CYDAllIA RF.VEALED 

on my Lord Arlington’s name,” he said. ‘‘You 
know well that he is not of the Roman faith, but is 
a convinced adherent of the Church of this coun- 
try.” 

“ Is he so ? ” asked Tate, with an undisguised 
sneer. 

“ Come, enough ! ” cried Darrell in sudden anger. 
“ I have much to say to my friend, and shall be 
glad to be left alone with him.” 

Tate made no objection to leaving us, and, gath- 
ering up his Bible, went out scowling. 

“ A pestilent fellow,” said Darrell. “ He’ll find 
himself laid by the heels before long. Well, I 
have settled your affair with my Lord Carford.” 

But my affair with Carford was not what I 
wanted to hear about. I came to him as he sat 
down at the table, and, laying my hand on his 
shoulder, asked simply, 

“ Is it true ? ” 

He looked up at me with great kindness, and 
answered gently, 

“ It is true. I guessed it as soon as you spoke 
of Cydaria. For Cydaria was the part in which 
she first gained the favour of the town, and that, 
taken with your description of her, gave me no 
room for doubt. Yet I hoped that it might not 
be as I feared, or, at least, that the thing could be 
hidden. It seems, though, that the saucy wench 
has made no secret of it. Thus you are landed in 
this quarrel, and with a good swordsman.” 

“ I care nothing for the quarrel ” I began. 

“Nay, but it is worse than you think. For 
Lord Carford is the gentleman of whom I spoke, 
when I told you that Mistress Quinton had a 
noble suitor. And he is high in her favour and 
51 


SIMON DALE 


higher yet in her father s. A quarrel with him, 
and on such a cause, will do you no good in Lord 
Quintons eyes.” 

Indeed, it seemed as though all the furies had 
combined to vex me. Yet still my desire was to 
learn of Cydaria, for even now I could hardly 
believe what Darrell told me. Sitting down by 
him, I listened while he related to me what he 
knew of her ; it was little more than the mention- 
ing of her true name told me — a name familiar, 
alas, through all the country, sung in ballads, ban- 
died to and fro in talk, dragged even into high 
disputes that touched the nation’s fortunes ; for in 
those strange days, when the world seemed a very 
devil’s comedy, great countries, ay, and Holy 
Churches, fought behind the mask of an actress’s 
face or chose a fair lady for their champion. I 
hope, indeed, that the end sanctified the means ; 
they had great need of that final justification. 
Castlemaine and Nell Gwyn — had we not all read 
and heard and gossiped of them? Our own Vicar 
had spoken to me of Nell, and would not speak 
too harshly, for Nell was Protestant. Yes, Nell, 
so please you, was Protestant. And other grave 
divines forgave her half her sins because she flouted 
most openly and with pert wit the other lady, who 
was suspected of an inclination towards Rome and 
an intention to charm the King into the true 
Church’s bosom. I also could have forgiven her 
much; for, saving my good Darrell’s presence, I 
hated a Papist worse than any man, saving a Ran- 
ter. Yes, I would have forgiven her all, and 
applauded her pretty face and laughed at her 
pretty ways. I had looked to do as much when I 
came to town, being, I must confess, as little 


CYDARIA REVEALED 


straight-laced as most young men. But I had not 
known that the thing was to touch me close. 
Could I forgive her my angry humiliation and my 
sore heart, bruised love and burning ridicule? I 
could forgive her for being all she now was. How 
could I forgive her for having been once my Cy- 
daria ? 

“Well, you must fight,” said Darrell, “ although 
it is not a good quarrel,” and he shook my hand 
very kindly, with a sigh of friendship. 

“Yes, I must fight,” said I, “and after that — if 
there be an after — I must go to Whitehall.” 

‘ ‘ To take up your commission ? ” he asked. 

“To lay it down, Mr. Darrell,” said I with a 
touch of haughtiness. “You don’t think that I 
could bear it, since it comes from such a source ? ” 

He pressed my hand, saying with a smile that 
seemed tender, 

“You’re from the country. Not one in ten 
would quarrel with that here.” 

“Yes, I’m from the country,” said I. “ It wj 
in the country that I knew Cydaria.” 



53 


CHAPTER V 


I AM FORBIDDEN TO FORGET 

It must be allowed that by no possible union of 
unlucky chances could I, desiring to appear as a 
staid, sober gentleman, and not as a ruffler or de- 
bauched gallant, have had a worse introduction to 
my new life. To start with a duel would have 
hurt me little, but a duel on such a cause and on 
behalf of such a lady (for I should seem to be fight- 
ing the battle of one w^hose name was past defend- 
ing) would make my reputation ridiculous to the 
gay, and offensive to all the more decent people of 
the town. I thought enough on this sad side of 
the matter that night at the inn, and despair would 
have made a prey of me had I not hoped to clear 
myself in some degree by the step on which I had 
determined. For I was resolved to abandon the 
aid in my career that the King’s unexpected favour 
had offered, and start afresh for myself, free from 
the illicit advantage of a place gained undeservedly. 
Yet, amid my chagrin, and in spite of my virtuous 
intentions, I found myself wondering that Cydaria 
had remembered ; I will not protest that I found 
no pleasure in the thought; a young man whose 
pride was not touched by it would have reached a 
higher summit of severity or a lower depth of in- 
sensibility than was mine. Yet here also I made 
vows of renunciation, concerning which there is 
nought to say but that, while very noble, they 
were in all likelihood most uncalled for. What 
54 


I AM FORBIDDEN TO FORGET 


would or could Cydaria be to me now ? She flew 
at bigger game. She had flung me a kindly crumb 
of remembrance ; she would think that we were 
well quit; nay, that I was overpaid for my bruised 
heart and dissipated illusion. 

It was a fine fresh morning when Mr. Darrell and 
1 set out for the place of meeting, he carrying a pair 
of swords. Mr. Jermyn had agreed to support my 
opponent ; and I was glad to learn that the meeting 
was to be restricted to the principals, and not, as 
too often occurred, to embroil the seconds also in a 
senseless quarrel. W e walked briskly ; and crossing 
the Oxford Road at Holborn, struck into the fields 
beyond Montague House. We were first at the 
rendezvous, but had not to wait long before three 
chairs appeared, containing Lord Carford,his second, 
and a surgeon. The chairmen, having set down 
their burdens, withdrew some way off, and we, 
being left to ourselves, made our preparations as 
quickly as we could ; Darrell, especially, urging 
speed : for it seemed that a rumour of the affair 
had got about the town, and he had no desire for 
spectators. 

Although I desire to write without malice and to 
render fullest justice to those whom I have least 
cause to love, I am bound to say that my Lord 
Carford seemed to be most bitterly incensed against 
me, whereas I was in no way incensed against him. 
In the first instance, he had offended without pre- 
meditation, for he had not known who I was ; his 
subsequent insolence might find excuse in the per- 
emptory phrasing of my demand for apology, too 
curt, perhaps, for a young and untried man. Honour 
forced me to fight, but nothing forced me to hate, 
and I asked no better than that we should both 
55 


SIMON DALE 


escape with as little hurt as the laws of the game 
allowed. His mood was different ; he had been 
bearded, and was in a mind to give my beard a 
pull — I speak in a metaphor, for beard had I none 
— and possessing some reputation as a swordsman, 
he could not well afford to let me go untouched. 
An old sergeant of General Cromwell’s, resident at 
Norwich, had instructed me in the use of the foils, 
but I was not my lord’s equal, and I set it down 
to my good luck and his fury that I came off no 
worse than the event proved. For he made at me 
with great impetuosity, and from beginning to end 
of the affair I was wholly concerned in defending 
myself; this much I achieved successfully for some 
moments, and I heard Mr. Jermyn say, “ But he 
stands his ground well ” ; then came a cunning 
feint followed by a fierce attack and a sharp pang 
in my left arm near the shoulder, while the sleeve 
of my shirt went red in a moment. The seconds 
darted in between us, and Darrell caught me round 
the waist. 

“ I’m glad it was no worse,” I whispered to him 
with a smile ; then I turned very sick, and the 
meadow started to go round and round me. For 
some minutes I knew nothing more, but when I 
revived, the surgeon was busy in binding up my 
arm, while the three gentlemen stood together in a 
group a little way apart. My legs shook under 
me, and doubtless I was as white as my mother’s 
best linen, but I was well content, feeling that my 
honour was safe, and that I had been as it were 
baptised of the company of gentlemen. So Mr. 
Jermyn seemed to think ; for when my arm was 
dressed, and I had got my clothes on again with 
some pain, and a silken sUng under my elbow, he 
56 


I AM FORBIDDEN TO FORGET 


came and craved the surgeon s leave to earry me 
off to breakfast. The request was granted, on a 
promise that I would abstain from inflaming food 
and from all strong liquors. Aecordingly we set 
out, I dissembling a eertain surprise inspired in my 
countryman’s mind by the discovery that my late 
enemy proposed to be of the party. Having eome 
to a tavern in Drury Lane, we were regaled very 
pleasantly; Mr. Jermyn, who (although a small 
man, and not in my opinion well-shaped) might be 
seen to hold himself in good esteem, recounting to 
us his adventures in love and his exploits on the 
field of honour. Meanwhile, Lord Carford treated 
me with distinguished courtesy, and I was at a loss 
to understand his changed humour until it appeared 
that Darrell had acquainted him with my resolution 
to surrender the commission that the King had 
bestowed on me. As we grew more free with one 
another, his lordship referred plainly to the matter, 
declaring that my conduct showed the nicest 
honour, and praying me to allow his own surgeon 
to visit me every day until my wound should be 
fully cured. His marked politeness, and the friend- 
liness of the others, put me in better humour than 
I had been since the discovery of the evening be- 
fore, and when our meal was ended, about eleven 
o’clock, I was well-nigh reconciled to life again. 
Yet it was not long before Carford and I were 
again good enemies, and crossed swords with no 
less zest, although on a different field. 

I had been advised by Darrell to return at once 
to my inn, and there rest quietly until evening, 
leaving my journey to Whitehall for the next day, 
lest too much exertion should induce a fever in me ; 
and in obedience to his counsel I began to walk 
57 


SIMON DALE 


gently along Drury Lane on my way back to 
Covent Garden. My Lord Carford and Mr. 
Jermyn had gone off to a cock-fight, where the 
King was to be, while Darrell had to wait upon 
the Secretary at his offices ; therefore I was alone, 
and, going easily, found fully enough to occupy my 
attention in the business and incredible stir of the 
town. I thought then, and think still, that nowhere 
in the world is there such a place for an idle man 
as London ; where else has he spread for him so 
continual a banquet of contemplation, where else 
are such comedies played every hour for his eyes’ 
delight? It is well enough to look at a running 
river, or to gaze at such mighty mountains as I saw 
when I journeyed many years later into Italy ; but 
the mountain moves not, and the stream runs 
always with the same motion and in its wonted 
channel. Give me these for my age, but to a 
young man a great city is queen of all. 

So I was thinking as I walked along; or so I 
think now that I must have thought ; for in writ- 
ing of his youth it is hard for a man to be sure 
that he does not transfer to that golden page some 
of the paler characters which later years print on 
his mind. Perhaps I thought of nothing at all, 
save that this man here was a fine fellow, that girl 
there a pretty wench, that my coat became me 
well, and my wounded arm gave me an interesting 
air. Be my meditations what they might, they 
were suddenly interrupted by the sight of a crowd 
in the Lane near to the Cock and Pie tavern. 
Here fifty or sixty men and women, decent folk 
some, others porters, flower-girls, and such like, 
were gathered in a circle round a man who was 
pouring out an oration or sermon with great zeal 
58 


I AM FORBIDDEN TO FORGET 


and vehemence. Having drawn nearer, I paused 
out of a curiosity which turned to amusement 
when I discovered in the preacher my good friend 
Phineas Tate, with whom I had talked the even- 
ing before. It seemed that he had set about his 
task without delay, and if London were still un- 
mindful of its sins, the fault was not to lie at Mr. 
Tate’s door. On he plunged, sparing neither great 
nor small ; if the Court were sinful, so was Drury 
Lane; if Castlemaine (he dealt freely in names, 
and most sparingly in titles of courtesy) were what 
he roundly said she was, which of the women 
about him was not the same ? How did they dif- 
fer from their betters, unless it were that their 
price was not so high, and in what, save audacity, 
were they behind Eleanor Gwyn ? He hurled this 
last name forth as though it marked a climax of 
iniquity, and a start ran through me as I heard it 
thus treated. Strange to say, something of the 
same effect seemed to be produced on his other 
hearers. Hitherto they had listened with good- 
natured tolerance, winking at one another, laugh- 
ing when the preacher’s finger pointed at a neigh- 
bour, shrugging comfortable shoulders when it 
turned against themselves. They are long-suffering 
under abuse, the folk of London; you may say 
much what you will, provided you allow them to 
do what they will, and they support the imputation 
of unrighteousness with marvellous composure, as 
long as no man takes it in hand to force them to 
righteousness. As they are now, they were then, 
though many changes have passed over the coun- 
try and the times ; so will they be, although more 
transformations come. 

But, as I say, this last name stirred the group to 
59 


SIMON DALE 


a new mood. Friend Phineas perceived the effect 
that he had made, but set a wrong meaning on it. 
Taking it as a ground for encouragement, he loosed 
his tongue yet more outrageously, and so battered 
the unhappy subject of his censures that my ears 
tingled, and suddenly I strode quickly up to the 
group, intent on silencing him ; but a great brawny 
porter, with a dirty red face, was beforehand with 
me. Elbowing his way irresistibly through the 
ranks, he set himself squarely before Phineas, and, 
wagging his head significantly enough, growled out : 

“ Say what you will of Castlemaine and the rest. 
Master Ranter, but keep your tongue off Nelly.” 

A murmur of applause ran round. They knew 
Nelly : here in the Lane was her kingdom. 

“ Let Nelly alone,” said the porter, “ if you value 
whole bones, master.” 

Phineas was no coward, and threats served only 
to fan the flame of his zeal. I had started to stop 
his mouth; it seemed likely that I must employ 
myself in saving his head. His lean frame would 
crack and break in the grasp of his mighty assail- 
ant, and I was loth that the fool should come to 
harm ; so I began to push my way through tow- 
ards the pair, and arrived just as Phineas, having 
shot a most pointed dart, was about to pay for his 
too great skill with a blow from the porter’s mut- 
ton-fist. I caught the fellow’s arm as he raised it, 
and he turned fiercely on me, growling, “ Are you 
his friend, then ? ” 

“Not I,” I answered. “But you’d kill him, 
man.” 

“ Let him heed what he says, then. Kill him ! 
Ay, and spare him readily ! ” 

The affair looked awkward enough, for the feel- 
60 


I AM FORBIDDEN TO FORGET 

ing was all one way, and I could do little to hinder 
any violence. A girl in the crowd reminded me 
of my helplessness, touching my wounded arm 
lightly, and saying, “ Are you hungry for more 
fighting, sir ? 

“He’s a madman,” said I. “Let him alone; 
who heeds what he says ? ” 

Friend Phineas did not take my defence in good 
part. 

“ Mad, am I ? ” he roared, beating with his fist 
on his Bible. “ You’ll know who was mad when 
you lie howling in hell fire. And with you that 
” And on he went again at poor Nell. 

The great porter could endure no more. With 
a seemingly gentle motion of his hand he thrust 
me aside, pushing me on to the bosom of a buxom 
flower-girl who, laughing boisterously, wound a pair 
of sturdy red arms round me. Then he stepped 
forward, and seizing Phineas by the scruff of the 
neck shook him as a dog shakes a rat. To what 
more violence he would have proceeded I do not 
know; for suddenly from above us, out of a win^ 
dow of the Cock and Pie, came a voice which sent 
a stir through my veins. 

“Good people, good people,” said the voice, 

‘ ‘ what with preaching and brawling, a body can 
get no sleep in the Lane. Pray go and work, or 
if you’ve no work, go and drink. Here are the 
means.” And a shower of small coins came flying 
down on our heads, causing an immediate wild 
scramble. My flower-girl loosed me that she might 
take her part in this fray ; the porter stood motion- 
less, still holding poor Phineas, limp and lank, in 
his hand ; and I turned my eyes upwards to the 
window of the Cock and Pie. 

5 61 


SIMON DALE 


“ I looked up, and I saw her. Her sunny brown 
hair was about her shoulders, her knuckles rubbed 
her sleepy eyes to brightness, and a loose white 
bodice, none too high nor too carefully buttoned 
about the neck, showed that her dressing was not 
done. Indeed, she made a pretty picture, as she 
leant out, laughing softly, and now shading her 
face from the sun with one hand, while she raised 
the other in mocking reproof of the preacher. 

“Fie, sir, fie,” she said. “Why fall on a poor girl 
who earns an honest living, gives to the needy, and 
is withal a good Protestant ? ” Then she called to 
the porter. “ Let him go with what life you’ve 
left in him. Let him go.” 

“ You heard what he said of you ” began the 

fellow sullenly. 

“ Ay, I hear what everybody says of me,” she 
answered carelessly. “ Let him go.” 

The porter sulkily released his prey, and Phineas, 
set free, began to gasp and shake himself. Anoth- 
er coin whistled down to the porter, who, picking 
it up, shambled off with a last oath of warning to 
his enemy. Then, and then only, did she look at 
me, who had never ceased to look at her. When 
she saw me, her smile grew broader, and her eyes 
twinkled in surprise and delight. 

“A happy morning! ” she said, clasping her little 
hands. “Ah, a happy morning! Why, ’tis Simon, 
my Simon, my little Simon from the country. 
Come up to me, Simon. No, no, your pardon ; 
I’ll come down to you, Simon. In the parlour, in 
the parlour. Quick! I’ll be down in an instant.” 

The vision vanished, but my gaze dwelt on the 
window where it had been, and I needed Phineas 
Tate’s harsh voice to rouse me from my stupor. 

62 


I AM FORBIDDEN TO FORGET 


“ Who is the woman ? ” he demanded. 

“ Why — why — Mistress Gwyn herself,” I stam- 
mered. 

‘‘ Herself — the woman herself? ” he asked eager- 
ly. Then he suddenly drew himself up and, baring 
his head, said solemnly, “ Thanks be to God, thanks 
be to God, for it may be His will that this brand 
should be plucked from the burning.” And before 
I could speak or attempt to hinder him he stepped 
swiftly across the pathway and entered the tavern. 
I, seeing nothing else that I could do, followed 
him straightway and as fast as I could. 

I was in a maze of feeling. The night before I 
had reasoned with myself and schooled my way- 
ward passion to a resolve neither to see nor to 
speak with her. Resentment at the shame she 
had brought on me aided my stubbornness, and 
helped me to forget that I had been shamed be- 
cause she had remembered me. But now I fol- 
lowed Phineas Tate. For be memory ever so keen 
and clear, yes, though it seem able to bring every 
feature, every shade, and every pose before a man’s 
eyes in absolute fidelity, yet how poor and weak a 
thing it is beside the vivid sight of bodily eyes ; 
that paints the faded picture all afresh in hot and 
glowing colours, and the man who bade defiance to 
the persuasions of his recollection falls beaten down 
by the fierce force of a present vision. I followed 
Phineas Tate, perhaps using some excuse with my- 
self— indeed, I feared that he w^ould attack her 
rudely and be cruelly plain with her — yet knowing 
in my heart that I went because I could do nothing 
else, and that when she called, every atom of life 
in me answered to her summons. So in I went, 
to find Phineas standing bolt upright in the par- 
es 


SIMON DALE 


lour of the tavern, turning the leaves of his book 
with eager fingers, as though he sought some text 
that was in his mind. I passed by him and leant 
against the wall by the window; so we awaited 
her, each of us eager, but with passions most un- 
like. 

She came, daintily dressed now, although still 
negligently. She put her head round the corner 
of the door, radiant with smiles, and with no more 
shame or embarrassment than if our meeting in 
this way were the most ordinary thing. Then she 
caught sight of Phineas Tate and cried, pouting, 
“ But I wanted to be alone with my Simon, my 
dear Simon.” 

Phineas caught the cue her words gave him with 
perverse readiness. 

“Alone with him, yes!” he cried. “But what 
of the time when you must be alone with God ? ’ ’ 

“ Alas,” said she, coming in and seating herself at 
the table, “ is there more still ? Indeed, I thought 
you had said all your say outside. I am very 
wicked ; let that end it. ” 

He advanced to the table and stood directly 
opposite to her, stretching his arm towards her, 
while she sat with her chin on her hands, watching 
him with eyes half-amused, half-apprehensive. 

“You who live in open sin ” he began; be- 

fore he could say more I was by his elbow. 

“ Hold your tongue,” I said. “ What is it to 
you ? ” 

“ Let him go on, Simon,” said she. 

And go on he did, telling all — as I prayed, more 
than all — the truth, while she heard him patiently. 
Yet now and then she gave herself a little shake, 
as though to get rid of something that threatened 
64 


I AM FORBIDDEN TO FORGET 


to stick. Then he fell on his knees and prayed 
fervently, she still sitting quiet and I standing 
awkwardly near. He finished his prayer and, 
rising again, looked earnestly at her. Her eyes 
met his in good nature, almost in friendliness. He 
stretched out his hand to her again, saying, 

“ Child, cannot you understand ? Alas, your 
heart is hardened ! I pray Christ our Lord to 
open your eyes and change your heart, that at the 
last your soul may be saved.” 

Nelly examined the pink nails of her right hand 
with curious attention. 

“I don’t know that I’m more of a sinner than 
many others,” said she. “ Go to Court and preach, 
sir.” 

A sudden fury seemed to come over him, and he 
lost the gentleness with which he had last addressed 
her. 

“The Word shall be heard at the Court,” he 
cried, “ in louder accents than mine. Their cup is 
full, the measure of their iniquity is pressed down 
and running over. All who live shall see.” 

“Like enough,” said Nell, as though the matter 
were grown very tedious, and she yawned just a 
little ; but, as she glanced at me, a merry light 
gleamed in her eyes, “ And what is to befall Simon 
here ? ” she asked. 

He turned on me with a start, seeming to have 
forgotten my presence. 

“ This young man ? ” he asked, looking full in 
my face. “ Why, his face is honest ; if he choose 
his friends well, he may do well.” 

“ I am of his friends,” said Nell, and I defy any 
man on earth to have given the lie to such a claim 
so made. 


65 


SIMON DALE 


“ And for you, may the Lord soften your heart,” 
said Phineas to her. 

“ Some say it’s too soft already,” said Nell. 

‘‘ You will see me again,” said he to her, and 
moved towards the door. But once more he faced 
me before he went, and looked very intently at 
me. Then he passed out, leaving us alone. 

At his going Nell sighed for relief, stretched out 
her arms, and let them fall on the table in front of 
her ; then she sprang up and ran to me, catching 
hold of my hands. 

“ And how goes all at pretty Hatchstead ? ” she 
asked. 

I drew back, releasing my hands from hers, and 
I spoke to her stiffly. 

“Madame,” said I, “this is not Hatchstead, nor 
do you seem the lady whom I knew at Hatch- 
stead.” 

“ Indeed, you seem very like the gentleman I 
knew, and knew well, there,” she retorted. 

“ And you, very unlike the lady.” 

“ Nay, not so unlike as you think. But are you 
also going to preach to me ? ” 

“ MadaUie,” said I in cold courtesy, “ I have to 
thank you for a good remembrance of me, and for 
your kindness in doing me a service ; I assure you 
I prize it none the less, because I may not ac- 
cept it.” 

“ You may not accept it ? ” she cried. “ What ? 
You may not accept the commission ? ” 

“ No, madame,” said I, bowing low. 

Her face was like a pretty child’s in disappoint- 
ment. 

“ And your arm ? How come you to be 
wounded ? Have you been quarrelling already ? ” 
66 


I AM FORBIDDEN TO FORGET 


Already, madame.” 

“ But with whom, and why ? ” 

“With my Lord Carford. The reason I need 
not weary you with.” 

“ But I desire to know it.” 

“ Because my lord said that Mistress Gwyn had 
obtained me my commission.” 

“ But it was true.” 

“ Doubtless ; yet I fought.” 

“ Why, if it were true ? ’ ’ 

I made her no answer. She went and seated 
herself again at the table, looking up at me with 
eyes in which I seemed to read pain and puzzle. 

“ I thought it would please you, Simon,” she 
said, with a coaxing glance that at least feigned 
timidity. 

“Never have I been so proud as on the day I 
received it,” said I ; “ and never, I think, so happy, 
unless, maybe, when you and I walked in the 
Manor park.” 

“Nay, Simon, but you will be glad to have it, 
even though I obtained it for you.” 

“I shall not have it. I go to Whitehall to- 
morrow to surrender it.” 

She sprang up in wonder, and anger also showed 
in her eyes. 

“To surrender it? You mean in truth to sur- 
render it ? And because it came from me ? ” 

Again I could do nothing but bow. That I did 
with the best air I could muster, although I had 
no love for my part in this scene. Alas for a man 
who, being with her, must spend his time in 
chiding ! 

“Well, I wish I hadn’t remembered you, ’’she 
said resentfully. 


67 


SIMON DALE 

“ Indeed, madame, I also wish that I had for- 
gotten.” 

“ You have, or you would never use me so.” 

“It is my memory that makes me rough, 
madame. Indeed, how should I have forgotten ? ” 

“You hadn’t?” she asked, advancing nearer to 
me. “ No, in truth I believe you hadn’t. And, 
Simon, listen ! ” Now she stood with her face but 
a yard from mine, and again her lips were curved 
with mirth and malice. “Listen, Simon,” she 
said, ‘ ‘ you had not forgotten ; and you shall not 
forget.” 

“ It is very likely,” said I simply; and I took up 
my hat from the table. 

“How fares Mistress Barbara?” asked Nell 
suddenly. 

“ I have not waited on her,” I answered. 

“ Then indeed I am honoured, although our 
meeting was somewhat by chance. Ah, Simon, I 
want to be so angry with you. But how can I be 
angry? I can never be angry. Why” (and here 
she came even a httle closer, and now she was 
smiling most damnably — nay, I mean most delight- 
fully ; but it is often much the same), “ I was not 
very angry even when you kissed me, Simon.” 

It is not for me to say what answer to that speech 
she looked to receive. Mine was no more than a 
repetition of my bow. 

“You’ll keep the commission, Simon?” she 
whispered, standing on tiptoe, as though she would 
reach my ear. 

“ I can’t,” said I, bowing no more, and losing, I 
fear, the air of grave composure that I had striven 
to maintain. I saw what seemed a light of triumph 
in her eyes. Yet that mood passed quickly from 
68 


I AM FORBIDDEN TO FORGET 


her. She grew pensive and drew away from me. 
I stepped towards the door, but a hand laid on my 
arm arrested me. 

“ Simon,” she asked, “ have you sweet memories 
of Hatchstead?” 

“ God forgive me,” said I confusedly, “ sweeter 
than my hopes of heaven.” 

She looked at me gravely for an instant. Then, 
sighing, she said, 

“Then I wish you had not come to town, but 
stayed there with your memories. They were of 
me?” 

“ Of Cydaria.” 

“ Ah, of Cydaria,” she echoed, with a little 
smile. 

But a moment later the full merriment of laugh- 
ter broke out again on her face, and, drawing her 
hand away, she let me go, crying after me, 

‘‘But you shall not forget, Simon. No, you 
shall not forget.” 

There I left her, standing in the doorway of the 
inn, daring me to forget. And my brain seemed 
all whirling and swirling as I walked down the 
Lane. 


69 


CHAPTER VI 


AN INVITATION TO COURT 

I SPENT the rest of that day in my inn, agreeably to 
the advice of the surgeon, and the next morning, 
finding my wound healing well, and my body free 
from fever, I removed to Mr. Darrells new lodging 
by the Temple, where he had most civilly placed 
two rooms at my disposal. Here also I provided 
myself with a servant, a fellow named Jonah Wall, 
and prepared to go to Whitehall as the King’s 
letter commanded me. Of Mr. Darrell I saw 
nothing ; he went off before I came, having left for 
me with Robert, his servant, a message that he was 
much engaged with the Secretary’s business, and 
prayed to be excused from affording me his com- 
pany. Yet I was saved from making my journey 
alone — a thing that would have occasioned me 
much trepidation — by the arrival of my Lord 
Quinton. The reverence of our tender years is 
hard to break down, and I received my visitor with 
an uneasiness which was not decreased by the 
severity of his questions concerning my doings. I 
made haste to tell him that I had determined to 
resign the commission bestowed on me. These 
tidings so transformed his temper that he passed 
from cold reproof to an excess of cordiality, being 
pleased to praise highly a scruple as honourable as 
(he added with a shrug) it was rare, and he began 
to laugh at himself as he recounted humorously 
how his wrath against me had grown higher and 
70 


AN INVITATION TO COURT 


higher with each thing that had come to his ears. 
Eager now to make amends, he offered to go with 
me to Whitehall, proposing that we should ride in 
his coach to the Mall, and walk thence together. 
I accepted his company most gratefully, since it 
would save me from betraying an ignorance of 
which I was ashamed, and strengthen my courage 
for the task before me. Accordingly we set out, 
and as we went my lord took occasion to refer to 
my acquaintance with Mistress Nell, suggesting 
plainly enough, although not directly, that I should 
be wise to abandon her society at the same time 
that I laid down the commission she had obtained 
for me. I did not question his judgment, but 
avoided giving any promise to be guided by it. 
Perceiving that I was not willing to be pressed, he 
passed from the topic with a sigh, and began to 
discourse on the state of the kingdom. Had I 
paid more heed to what he said I might have 
avoided certain troubles into which I fell afterwards, 
but, busy staring about me, I gave him only such 
attention as courtesy required, and not enough for 
a proper understanding of his uneasiness at the 
dealings of our Court with the French King and 
the visit of the King’s sister, Madame d’Orleans, of 
which the town was full. For my lord, although a 
most loyal gentleman, hated both the French and 
the Papists, and was much grieved at the King’s 
apparent inclination in their favour. So he talked, 
I nodding and assenting to all, but wondering when 
he would bid me wait on my lady, and whether 
Mistress Barbara was glad that my Lord Carford’s 
sword had passed through my arm only and done 
no greater hurt. 

Thus we came to the Mall, and having left the 
71 


SIMON DALE 


coach, set out to walk slowly, my lord having his 
arm through mine. I was very glad to be seen thus 
in his company, for, although not so great a man 
here as at Hatchstead, he had no small reputation, 
and carried himself with a noble air. When we 
had gone some little way, being very comfortable 
with one another, and speaking now of lighter 
matters, I perceived at some distance a party of 
gentlemen, three in number ; they were accompanied 
by a little boy very richly dressed, and were fol- 
lowed at a short interval by five or six more gentle- 
men, among whom I recognised immediately my 
friend Darrell. It seemed then that the Secretary’s 
business could be transacted in leisurely fashion ! 
As the first group passed along, I observed that 
the bystanders uncovered, but I had hardly needed 
this sign to tell me that the King was of the party. 
I was familiar with his features, but he seemed to 
me even a more swarthy man than all the descrip- 
tions of his blackness had led me to expect. He 
bore himself with a very easy air, yet was not 
wanting in dignity, and being attracted by him I 
fell to studying his appearance with such interest 
that I came near to forgetting to remove my hat. 
Presently he seemed to observe us ; he smiled, and 
beckoned with his hand to my lord, who went for- 
ward alone, leaving me still watching the King and 
his companions. 

I had little difficulty in recognising the name of 
one; the fine figure, haughty manner, and mag- 
nificent attire showed him to be the famous Duke 
of Buckingham, whose pride lay in seeming more 
of a King than the King himself. While my lord 
spoke with the King, this nobleman jested with the 
little boy, who answered with readiness and vivacity. 

72 


AN INVITATION TO COURT 


As to the last member of the group (whom the 
Duke seemed to treat with some neglect) I was at a 
loss. His features were not distinguished except 
by a perfect composure and self-possession, but his 
bearing was very courtly and graceful. He wore a 
slight, pleasant, yet rather rigid smile, and his atti- 
tude was as though he listened to what his master 
said with even excessive deference and urbanity. 
His face was marked, and to my thinking much 
disfigured, by a patch or plaster worn across the 
nose, as though to hide some wound or scar. 

After a few minutes, during which I waited very 
uneasily, my lord turned and signed to me to 
approach. I obeyed, hat in hand, and in a con- 
dition of great apprehension. To be presented to 
the King was an honour disquieting enough ; what 
if my lord had told His Majesty that I declined to 
bear his commission through a disapproval of his 
reasons for granting me the favour ? But when I 
came near I fell into the liveliest fear that my lord 
had done this very thing ; for the King was smiling 
contemptuously, Buckingham laughing openly, and 
the gentleman with the plaster regarding me with 
a great and very apparent curiosity. My lord, 
meanwhile, wore a propitiatory but doubtful air, as 
though he prayed but hardly hoped a gracious re- 
ception for me. Thus we all stood a moment in 
complete silence, I invoking an earthquake or any 
convulsion of nature that should rescue me from 
my embarrassment. Certainly the King did not 
hasten to do me this kindly service. He grew 
grave and seemed displeased, nay, he frowned most 
distinctly, but then he smiled, yet more as though 
he must than because he would. I do not know 
how the thing would have ended if the Duke of 
73 


SIMON DALE 


Buckingham had not burst out laughing again, at 
which the King could not restrain himself, but 
began to laugh also, although still not as though he 
found the jest altogether to his liking. 

“ So, sir,” said the King, composing his features 
as he addressed me, “ you are not desirous of bear- 
ing my commission and fighting my enemies for 
me?’’ 

I would fight for your Majesty to the death,” 
said I timidly, but with fervour. 

“Yet you are on the way to ask leave to resign 
your commission. Why, sir ? ” 

I could not answer ; it was impossible to state 
my reason to him. 

“ The utility of a woman’s help,” observed the 
King, “ was apparent very early in the world’s his- 
tory. Even Adam was glad of it.” 

“ She was his wife. Sir,” interposed the Duke. 

“ I have never read of the ceremony,” said the 
King. “ But if she were, what difference ? ” 

“ Why, it makes a great deal of difference in 
many ways. Sir,” laughed Buckingham, and he 
glanced with a significance which I did not under- 
stand at the boy who was waiting near with a weary 
look on his pretty face. 

The King laughed carelessly and called, “ Charles, 
come hither.” 

Then I knew that the boy must be the King’s 
son, afterwards known as Earl of Plymouth, and 
found the meaning of the Duke’s glance. 

‘‘ Charles, what think you of women ? ” the King 
asked. 

The pretty child thought for a moment, then 
answered, looking up, 

“ They are very tiresome creatures. Sir. ” 

74 


AN INVITATION TO COURT 


“Why, so they are, Charles,” said the King 
gravely. 

“ They will never let a thing alone. Sir.” 

“No, they won’t, Charles, nor a man either.” 

“It’s first this. Sir, then that — a string, or a 
garter, or a bow.” 

“ Yes, Charles ; or a title, or a purse, or a com- 
mission,” said the King. “ Shall we have no more 
to do with them ? ” 

“ I would desire no more at all, Sir,” cried the 
boy. 

“ It appears, Mr. Dale,” said the King, turning to 
me, “ that Charles here, and you, and I, are all of 
one mind on the matter of women. Had Heaven 
been on our side, there would have been none of 
them in the world.” 

He seemed to be examining me now with some 
degree of attention, although I made, I fear, a very 
poor figure. Lord Quinton came to my rescue, and 
began to enlarge on my devotion to his Majesty’s 
person and my eagerness to serve him in any 
way I might, apart from the scruple which he had 
ventured to disclose to the King. 

“Mr. Dale says none of these fine things for 
himself,” remarked the King. 

“ It is not always those that say most who do 
most. Sir,” pleaded my lord. 

“ Therefore this young gentleman who says 
nothing will do everything ? ” The King turned 
to his companion who wore the plaster, and had as 
yet not spoken at all. “ My Lord Arlington,” said 
he, ‘ ‘ it seems that I must release Mr. Dale.” 

“ I think so. Sir,” answered Arlington, on whom 
I looked with much curiosity, since he was Dar- 
rell’s patron. 


75 


SIMON DALE 


‘‘ I cannot have servants who do not love me,” 
pursued the King. 

“ Nor subjects,” added Buckingham, with a ma- 
licious smile. 

“ Although I am not, unhappily, so free in the 
choice of my Ministers,” said the King. Then he 
faced round on me and addressed me in a cold tone : 

“ I am reluctant, sir, to set down your conduct 
to any want of affection or loyalty towards me. I 
shall be glad if you can show me that my forbear- 
ance is right.” With this he bent his head slightly, 
and moved on. I bowed very low, shame and con- 
fusion so choking me that I had not a word to say. 
Indeed, I seemed damned beyond redemption, so 
far as my fortunes depended on obtaining the 
King s favour. 

Again I was left to myself, for the King, anxious, 
as I took it, to show that his displeasure extended 
to me only, had stopped again to speak with my 
lord. But in a moment, to my surprise, Arlington 
was at my side. 

“ Come, sir,” said he very genially, “ there’s no 
need of despair. The King is a little vexed, but 
his resentment is not obstinate ; and let me tell you 
that he has been very anxious to see you.” 

“ The King anxious to see me ? ” I cried. 

“ Why, yes. He has heard much of you.” His 
hps twitched as he glanced at me. I had the dis- 
cretion to ask no further explanation, and in a mo- 
ment he grew ^ave again, continuing, “ I also am 
glad to meet with you, for my good friend Darrell 
has sounded your praises to me. Sir, there are 
many ways of serving the King.” 

“ I should rejoice with all my heart to find one 
of them, my lord,” I answered. 

76 


AN INVITATION TO COURT 


“ I may find you one, if you are willing to take 
it.” 

“ I should be your lordship s most humble and 
grateful servant.” 

“ Tut, if I gave, I should ask in return,” said he. 
And he added suddenly, “ You’re a good Church- 
man, I suppose, Mr. Dale ? ” 

“ Why, yes, my lord ; I and all my family.” 

“Good, good. In these days our Church has 
many enemies. It is threatened on more than one 
side. ” 

I contented myself with bowing; when the 
Secretary spoke to me on such high matters, it was 
for me to listen, and not to bandy opinions with 
him. 

“Yes, we are much threatened,” said he. 
“Well, Mr. Dale, I shall trust that we may have 
other meetings. You are to be found at Mr. Dar- 
rell’s lodging ? You may look to hear from me, 
sir.” He moved away, cutting short my thanks 
with a polite wave of his hand. 

Suddenly, to my amazement, the King turned 
round and called to me; 

“ Mr. Dale, there is a play to be acted at my 
house to-morrow evening. Pray give me the 
pleasure of your company.” 

I bowed almost to the ground, scarcely able to 
believe my ears. 

“ And we’ll try,” said the King, raising his voice 
so that not only we who were close to him but the 
gentlemen behind also must hear, “ to find an ugly 
woman and an honest man, between whom we may 
place you. The first should not be difficult to 
come on, but the second, I fear, is well-nigh im- 
possible, unless another stranger should come to 
6 77 


SIMON DALE 


Court. Good-day to you, Mr. Dale.” And away 
he went, smiling very happily and holding the 
boy’s hand in his. 

The King’s immediate party was no sooner gone 
than Darrell ran up to me eagerly, and before my 
lord could rejoin me, crying : 

“ What did he say to you ? ” 

“ The King ? Why, he said ” 

“ No, no. What did my lord say? ” He pointed 
to Arlington, who was walking off with the King. 

“ He asked whether I were a good Churchman, 
and told me that I should hear from him. But if 
he is so solicitous about the Church, how does he 
endure your religion ? ” 

Darrell had no time to answer, for Lord Quin- 
ton’s grave voice struck in. 

“ He is a wise man who can answer a question 
touching my Lord Arlington’s opinion of the 
Church,” said he. 

Darrell flushed red, and turned angrily on the 
interrupter. 

“You have no cause, my lord,” he cried, “to 
attack the Secretary’s churchmanship.” 

“ Then you have no cause, sir,” retorted Quin- 
ton, “ to defend it with so much temper. Come, 
let me be. I have said as much to the Secretary’s 
face, and he bore it with more patience than you 
can muster on his behalf.” 

By this time I was in some distress to see my 
old friend and my new at such variance, and the 
more as I could not understand the ground of 
their difference ; the Secretary’s suspected leaning 
towards the Popish religion had not reached our 
ears in the country. But Darrell, as though he 
did not wish to dispute further with a man his 
78 


AN INVITATION TO COURT 


superior in rank and age, drew off with a bow to 
my lord and a kindly nod to me, and rejoined the 
other gentlemen in attendance on the King and 
his party. 

“ You came off well with the King, Simon,” 
said my lord, taking my arm again. “You made 
him laugh, and he counts no man his enemy who 
will do him that service. But what did Arlington 
say to you ? ” 

When I repeated the Secretary’s words, he grew 
grave, but he patted my arm in a friendly fashion, 
saying, 

“You’ve shown wisdom and honour in this first 
matter, lad. I must trust you in others. Yet 
there are many who have no faith in my Lord 
Arlington, as Englishman or Churchman either.” 

“ But,” cried I, “does not Lord Arhngton do as 
the King bids him ? ” 

My lord looked full in my face, and answered 
steadily, 

“ I think he does, Simon.” But then, as though 
he had said enough, or even too much, he went on ; 
“ Come, you needn’t grow too old or too prudent 
all at once. Since you have seen the King, your 
business at Whitehall will wait. Let us turn back 
to the coach and be driven to my house, for, be- 
sides my lady, Barbara is there to-day on leave 
from her attendance, and she will be glad to renew 
her acquaintance with you. ” 

It was my experience as a young man, and, per- 
chance, other young men may have found the like, 
that whatsoever apprehensions or embarrassments 
might be entailed by meeting a comely damsel, 
and however greatly her displeasure and scorn were 
to be dreaded, yet the meeting was not forgone, all 
79 


SIMON DALE 


perils being taken rather than that certain calam- 
ity. Therefore I went with my lord to his hand- 
some house in Southampton Square, and found 
myself kissing my lady’s hand before I was resolved 
on how I should treat Mistress Barbara, or on the 
more weighty question of how I might look to be 
treated by her. 

I had not to wait long for the test. After a few 
moments of my lady’s amiable and kindly conver- 
sation, Barbara entered from the room behind, and 
with her Lord Carford. He wore a disturbed air, 
which his affected composure could not wholly 
conceal; her cheek was flushed, and she seemed 
vexed ; but I did not notice these things so much 
as the change which had been wrought in her by 
the last four years. She had become a very beau- 
tiful woman, ornamented with a high-bred grace 
and exquisite haughtiness, tall and slim, carrying 
herself with a delicate dignity. She gave me her 
hand to kiss, carelessly enough, and rather as 
though she acknowledged an old acquaintance than 
found any pleasure in its renewal. But she was 
gentle to me, and I detected in her manner a sub- 
tle indication that, although she knew all, yet she 
pitied rather than blamed; was not Simon very 
young and ignorant, and did not all the world 
know how easily even honest young men might be 
beguiled by cunning women ? An old friend must 
not turn her back on account of a folly, distasteful 
as it might be to her to be reminded of such 
matters. 

My lord, I think, read his daughter very well, 
and, being determined to afford me an opportunity 
to make my peace, engaged Lord Carford in con- 
versation, and bade her lead me into the room be- 
80 


AN INVITATION TO COURT 


hind to see the picture that Lely had lately painted 
of her. She obeyed ; and, having brought me to 
where it hung, listened patiently to my remarks on 
it, which I tried to shape into compliments that 
should be pleasing and yet not gross. Then, tak- 
ing courage, I ventured to assure her that I fell 
out with Lord Carford in sheer ignorance that he 
was a friend of her family, and would have borne 
anything at his hands had I known it. She smiled, 
answering. 

But you did him no harm,” and she glanced at 
my arm in its sling. 

She had not troubled herself to ask how it did, 
and I, a little nettled at her neglect, said : 

“ Nay, all ended well. I alone was hurt, and 
the great lord came off safe.” 

“ Since the great lord was in the right,” said she, 
“ we should all rejoice at that. Are you satisfied 
with your examination of the picture, Mr. Dale ? ” 

I was not to be turned aside so easily. 

“ If you hold me to have been wrong, then I 
have done what I could to put myself in the right 
since,” said I, not doubting that she knew of my 
surrender of the commission. 

“I don’t understand,” said she, with a quick 
glance. ‘‘ What have you done ?” 

In wonder that she had not been informed, I cried, 

“ I have obtained the King’s leave to decline his 
favour. ’ ’ 

The colour which had been on her cheeks when 
she first entered had gone before now, but at my 
words it returned a little. 

“ Didn’t my lord tell you ? ” I asked. 

“I haven’t seen him alone this week past,” she 
answered. 


81 


SIMON DALE 


But she had seen Carford alone, and that in the 
last hour past. It was strange that he, who had 
known my intention and commended it so highly, 
should not have touched on it. I looked in her 
eyes ; I think she followed my thoughts, for she 
glanced aside, and said in visible embarrassment, 

‘‘ Shall we return ? ” 

“You haven’t spoken on the matter with my 
Lord Carford, then ? ” I asked. 

She hesitated a moment, then answered as though 
she did not love the truth but must tell it, 

“Yes; but he said nothing of this. Tell me 
of it.” 

So I told her in simple and few words what I 
had done. 

“ Lord Carford said nothing of it,” she said, when 
I ended. Then she added, “ But although you will 
not accept the favour, you have rendered thanks 
for it ? ” 

“ I couldn’t find my tongue when I was with the 
King,” I answered with a shamefaced laugh. 

“I didn’t mean to the King,” said Barbara. 

It was my turn to colour now ; I had not been 
long enough in town to lose the trick. 

“ I have seen her,” I murmured. 

Barbara suddenly made me a curtsey, saying 
bitterly, 

“ I wish you joy, sir, of your acquaintance.” 

When a man is alone with a beautiful lady, he 
is apt not to love an intruder ; yet on my soul I 
was glad to see Carford in the doorway. He came 
towards us, but before he could speak Barbara cried 
to him, 

“ My lord, Mr. Dale teUs me news that will in- 
terest you.” 


82 


AN INVITATION TO COURT 


“ Indeed, madame, and what ? ” 

“ Why, that he has begged the King s leave to 
resign his commission. Doesn’t it surprise you ? ” 
He looked at her, at me, and again at her. He 
was caught, for I knew that he had been fully 
acquainted with my purpose. He gathered him- 
self together to answer her. 

Nay, I knew,” he said, “and had ventured to 
applaud Mr. Dale’s resolution. But it did not 
come into my mind to speak of it.” 

“ Strange,” said she, “ when we were deploring 
that Mr. Dale should obtain his commission by 
such means ! ” 

She rested her eyes on him steadily, while her 
lips were set in a scornful smile. A pause followed 
her words. 

“ I daresay I should have mentioned it, had we 
not passed to another topic,” said he at last and 
sullenly enough. Then, attempting a change in 
tone, he added, “ Won’t you rejoin us ? ” 

“ I am very well here,” she said. 

He waited a moment, then bowed, and left us. 
He was frowning heavily, and, as I judged, would 
have greeted another quarrel with me very gladly, 
had I been minded to give him an opportunity; 
but thinking it fair that I should be cured from the 
first encounter before I faced a second, I held my 
peace till he was gone ; then I said to Barbara, 

“ I wonder he didn’t tell you.” 

Alas for my presumption ! The anger that had 
been diverted on to Carford’s head swept back to 
mine. 

“ Indeed, why should he ? ” she cried. “ All the 
world can’t be always thinking of you and your 
affairs, Mr. Dale.” 


83 


SIMON DALE 


“Yet you were vexed because he hadn’t.” 

“ I vexed ! Not I ! ” said Barbara haughtily. 

I could not make that out ; she had seemed 
angry with him. But because I spoke of her 
anger, she was angry now with me. Indeed I 
began to think that little Charles, the King, and I 
had been right in that opinion in which the King 
found us so much of a mind. Suddenly Barbara 
spoke. 

“ Tell me what she is hke, this friend of yours,” 
she said. “ I have never seen her.” 

It leapt to my lips to cry, “ Ay, you have seen 
her I ” but I did not give utterance to the words. 
Barbara had seen her in the park at Hatchstead, 
seen her more than once, and more than once 
found sore offence in what she saw. There is wis- 
dom in silence ; I was learning that safety might 
lie in deceit. The anger under which I had suf- 
fered would be doubled if she knew that Cydaria 
was NeU and Nell Cydaria. Why should she 
know? Why should my own mouth betray me 
and add my bygone sins to the offences of to-day ? 
My lord had not told her that Nell was Cydaria. 
Should I speak where my lord was silent ? Neither 
would I tell her of Cydaria. 

“ You haven’t seen her ? ” I asked. 

“ No ; and I would learn what she is like.” 

It was a strange thing to command me, yet 
Barbara’s desire joined with my own thoughts to 
urge me to it. I began tamely enough, with a stiff 
hst of features and catalogue of colours. But as I 
talked recollection warmed my voice ; and when 
Barbara’s lips curled scornfully, as though she 
would say, “What is there in this to make men 
fools ? There is nothing in all this,” I grew more 
84 


AN INVITATION TO COURT 


vehement and painted the picture with all my 
skill. What malice began, my ardour perfected, 
until, engrossed in my fancy, I came near to for- 
getting that I had a listener, and ended with a start 
as I found Barbara’s eyes fixed on mine, while she 
stood motionless before me. My exultation van- 
ished, and confusion drove away my passion. 

“ You bade me describe her,” said I lamely. ‘‘ I 
do not know whether others see as I do, but such 
is she to my eyes.” 

A silence followed. Barbara’s face was not 
flushed now, but rather seemed paler than it was 
wont to be. I could not tell how it was, but I 
knew that I had wounded her. Is not beauty 
jealous, and who but a clod will lavish praise on 
one fair face while another is before him ? I should 
have done better to play the hypocrite and swear 
that my folly, not Nell’s features, was to blame. 
But now I was stubborn and would recall not a 
word of all my raptures. Yet I was glad that I 
had not told her who Cydaria was. 

The silence was short. In an instant Barbara 
gave a little laugh, saying, 

“ Small wonder you were caught, poor Simon ! 
Yes, the creature must be handsome enough. 
Shall we return to my mother ? ” 

On that day she spoke no more with me. 


85 


CHAPTER VII 


WHAT CAME OF HONESTY 

I SHOULD sin against the truth and thereby rob 
this my story of its solitary virtue were I to pre- 
tend that my troubles and perplexities, severe as 
they seemed, outweighed the pleasure and new 
excitement of my life. Ambition was in my head, 
youth in my veins, my eyes looked out on a gay 
world with a regard none too austere. Against 
these things even love’s might can wage but an 
equal battle. For the moment, I must confess, my 
going to Court, with the prospect it opened and the 
chances it held, dominated my mind, and Jonah 
Wall, my servant, was kept busy in preparing me 
for the great event. I had made a discovery con- 
cerning this fellow which afforded me much amuse- 
ment ; coming on him suddenly, I found him deeply 
engaged on a Puritan Psalm-book, sighing and 
casting up his eyes to heaven in a ludicrous excess 
of glum-faced piety. I pressed him hard and 
merrily, when it appeared that he was as thorough 
a Ranter as my friend Phineas himself, and held 
the Court and all in it to be utterly given over to 
Satan, an opinion not without some warrant, had 
he observed any moderation in advancing it. Not 
wishing to harm him, I kept my knowledge to 
myself, but found a malicious sport in setting him 
to supply me with all the varieties of raiment, 
perfumes, and other gauds — that last was his word, 
not mine — ^which he abhorred, but which Mr. Simon 
86 


WHAT CAME OF HONESTY 


Dale s new-born desire for fashion made imperative, 
however little Mr. Simon Dale s purse could proper- 
ly afford the expense of them. The truth is that 
Mistress Barbara s behaviour spurred me on. I had 
no mind to be set down a rustic ; I could stomach 
disapproval and endure severity ; pitied for a mis- 
guided befooled clod I would not be ; and the best 
way to avoid such a fate seemed to lie in showing 
myself as reckless a gallant and as fine a roisterer 
as any at Whitehall. So I dipped freely and deep 
into my purse, till Jonah groaned as woefully for 
my extravagance as for my frivolity. All day he 
was in great fear lest I should take him with me 
to Court to the extreme peril of his soul ; but pru- 
dence at last stepped in and bade me spare myself 
the cost of a rich livery by leaving him behind. 

Now Heaven forbid that I should imitate my 
servant’s sour folly (for, if a man must be a fool, I 
would have him a cheerful fool) or find anything 
to blame in the pomp and seemly splendour of a 
Royal Court ; yet the profusion that met my eyes 
amazed me. It was the King’s whim that on this 
night himself, his friends, and principal gentlemen 
should, for no reason whatsoever except the quicker 
disbursing of their money, assume Persian attire, 
and they were one and all decked out in richest 
Oriental garments, in many cases lavishly em- 
broidered with precious stones. The Duke of 
Buckingham seemed all ablaze, and the other 
courtiers and wits were little less magnificent, fore- 
most among them being the young Duke of Mon- 
mouth, whom I now saw for the first time and 
thought as handsome a youth as I had set eyes on. 
The ladies did not enjoy the licence offered by this 
new fashion, but they contrived to hold their own 
87 


SIMON DALE 


in the French mode, and I, who had heard much 
of the poverty of the nation, the necessities of the 
fleet, and the straits in which the King found 
himself for money, was left gaping in sheer wonder 
whence came all the wealth that was displayed 
before my eyes. My own poor preparations lost 
all their charm, and I had not been above half an 
hour in the place before I was seeking a quiet cor- 
ner in which to hide the poverty of my coat and the 
plainness of my cloak. But the desire for privacy 
thus bred in me was not to find satisfaction. Dar- 
rell, whom I had not met all day, now pounced on 
me and carried me off, declaring that he was 
charged to present me to the Duke of York. 
Trembling between fear and exultation, I walked 
with him across the floor, threading my way 
through the dazzling throng that covered the space 
in front of His Majesty’s dais. But before we 
came to the Duke, a gentleman caught my com- 
panion by the arm and asked him how he did in a 
hearty, cheerful, and rather loud voice. Darrell’s 
answer was to pull me forward and present me, 
saying that Sir Thomas Clifford desired my ac- 
quaintance, and adding much that erred through 
kindness of my parts and disposition. 

“ Nay, if he’s your friend, it’s enough for me, 
Darrell,” answered Clifford, and putting his mouth 
to Darrell’s ear he whispered. Darrell shook his 
head, and I thought that the Treasurer seemed dis- 
appointed. However, he bade me farewell with 
cordiality. 

‘‘ What did he ask you ? ” said I, when we 
started on our way again. 

‘‘ Only whether you shared my superstition,” 
answered Darrell with a laugh. 

88 


WHAT CAME OF HONESTY 


“They’re all mighty anxious about my religion,” 
thought I. “ It would do no harm if they be- 
stowed more attention on their own.” 

Suddenly turning a corner, we came on a group 
in a recess hung on three sides with curtains and 
furnished with low couches in the manner of an 
Oriental divan. The Duke of York, who seemed 
to me a handsome courtly prince, was sitting, and 
by him Lord Arlington. Opposite to them stood 
a gentleman to whom the Duke, when I had made 
my bow, presented me, bidding me know Mr. 
Hudleston, the Queen’s Chaplain. I was familiar 
with his name, having often heard of the Romish 
priest who befriended the King in his flight from 
W orcester ; I was examining his features with the 
interest that an unknown face belonging to a well- 
known name has for us, when the Duke addressed 
me with a suave and lofty graciousness, his manner 
being in a marked degree more ceremonious than 
the King’s. 

“My Lord Arlington,” said he, “has commended 
you, sir, as a young gentleman of most loyal senti- 
ments. My brother and we who love him have 
great need of the services of all such.” 

I stammered out an assurance of devotion. Ar- 
lington rose and took me by the arm, whispering 
that I had no need to be embarrassed. But Mr. 
Hudleston turned a keen and searching glance on 
me, as though he would read my thoughts. 

“ I’m sure,” said Arlington, “ that Mr. Dale is 
most solicitous to serve His Majesty in all things.” 

I bowed, saying to the Duke, 

“ Indeed I am, sir ; I ask nothing but an oppor- 
tunity.” 

“ In all things ? ” asked Hudleston abruptly. 

89 


SIMON DALE 


‘‘ In all things, sir ? ” He fixed his keen eyes on 
my face. 

Arlington pressed my arm and smiled pleasant- 
ly; he knew that kindness binds more sheaves than 
severity. 

“ Come, Mr. Dale says in all things,” he ob- 
served. “ Do we need more, sir ? ” 

But the Duke was rather of the priest’s temper 
than of the Minister’s. 

‘‘Why, my lord, he answered, “I have never 
known Mr. Hudleston ask a question without a 
reason for it. ’ ’ 

“ By serving the King in all things, some mean 
in all things in which they may be pleased to serve 
the King,” said Hudleston gravely. “Is Mr. 
Dale one of these ? Is it the King’s pleasure or 
his own that sets the limit to his duty and his ser- 
vices ? ” 

They were all looking at me now, and it seemed 
as though we had passed from courtly phrases, such 
as fall readily but with little import from a man’s 
lips, and had come to a graver matter. They were 
asking some pledge of me, or their looks belied 
them. Why or to what end they desired it I could 
not tell ; but Darrell, who stood behind the priest, 
nodded his head to me with an anxious frown. 

“ I will obey the King in all things,” I began. 

“ Well said, well said,” murmured Arlington. 

“ Saving,” I proceeded, thinking it my duty to 
make this addition, and not conceiving that there 
could be harm in it, “ the liberties of the Kingdom 
and the safety of the Reformed Religion.” 

I felt Arlington’s hand drawn half-away, but in 
an instant it was back, and he smiled no less pleas- 
antly than before. But the Duke, less able or less 
90 


WHAT CAME OF HONESTY 


careful to conceal his mood, frowned heavily, while 
Hudleston cried impatiently, 

“ Reservations ! Kings are not served with res- 
ervations, sir.” 

He made me angry. Had the Duke said what 
he did, I would have taken it with a dutiful bow 
and a silent tongue. But who was this priest to 
rate me in such a style ? My temper banished my 
prudence, and, bending my head towards him, I 
answered : 

“ Yet the Crown itself is worn with these reser- 
vations, sir, and the King himself allows them.” 

For a moment nobody spoke. Then Arlington 
said, 

“ I fear, sir, Mr. Dale is as yet less a courtier 
than an honest gentleman.” 

The Duke rose to his feet. 

“ I have found no fault with Mr. Dale,” said he 
haughtily and coldly, and, taking no more heed of 
me, he walked away, while Hudleston, having be- 
stowed on me an angry glance, followed him. 

“ Mr. Dale, Mr. Dale ! ” whispered Arlington, 
and with no more than that, although still with a 
smile, he slipped his arm out of mine and left me, 
beckoning Darrell to go with him. Darrell obeyed 
with a shrug of despair. I was alone — and, as it 
seemed, ruined. Alas, why must I blurt out my old 
lessons as though I had been standing again at my 
father’s knee and not in the presence of the Duke 
of York ? Yes, my race was run before it was 
begun. The Court was not the place for me. In 
great bitterness I flung myself down on the 
cushions and sat there, out of heart and very dis- 
mal. A moment passed ; then the curtain behind 
me was drawn aside, and an amused laugh sounded 
91 


SIMON DALE 


in my ear as I turned. A young man leapt over 
the couch and threw himself down beside me, 
laughing heartily and crying, 

“ Well done, well done ! I’d have given a thou- 
sand crowns to see their faces ! ” 

I sprang to my feet in amazement and confu- 
sion, bowing low, for the young man by me was 
the Duke of Monmouth. 

“ Sit, man,” said he, pulling me down again. “ I 
was behind the curtain, and heard it all. Thank 
God, I held my laughter in till they were gone. 
The liberties of the Kingdom and the safety of the 
Reformed Religion ! Here’s a story for the King ! ” 
He lay back, seeming to enjoy the jest most hugely. 

“ For the love of heaven, sir,” I cried, “ don’t tell 
the King ! I’m already ruined.” 

“ Why, so you are, with my good uncle,” said 
he. “ You’re new to Court, Mr. Dale ? ” 

“ Most sadly new,” I answered in a rueful tone, 
which set him laughing again. 

“You hadn’t heard the scandalous stories that 
accuse the Duke of loving the Reformed Religion 
no better than the liberties of the Kingdom ? ” 

“ Indeed, no, sir. ” 

“ And my Lord Arlington ? I know him ! He 
held your arm to the last, and he smiled to the 
last?” 

“ Indeed, sir, my lord was most gentle to me.” 

“ Ay, I know his way. Mr. Dale, for this enter- 
tainment let me call you friend. Come then, we’ll 
go to the King with it.” And, rising, he seized me 
by the arm and began to drag me off. 

“ Indeed your Grace must pardon me ” I 

began. 

“ But indeed I will not,” he persisted. Then he 
92 


WHAT CAME OF HONESTY 

suddenly grew grave as he said, “ I am for the 
liberties of the Kingdom and the safety of the Re- 
formed Religion. Aren’t we friends, then ? ” 

‘‘Your Grace does me infinite honour.” 

“ And am I no good friend ? Is there no value 
in the friendship of the King’s son — the King’s 
eldest son ? ” He drew himself up with a grace 
and a dignity which became him wonderfully. 
Often in these later days I see him as he was then, 
and think of him with tenderness. Say what you 
will, he made many love him even to death, who 
would not have lifted a finger for his father or the 
Duke of York. 

Yet in an instant — such slaves are we of our 
moods — I was more than half in a rage with him. 
For as we went we encountered Mistress Barbara 
on Lord Carford’s arm. The quarrel between them 
seemed past and they were talking merrily together. 
On the sight of her the Duke left me and ran for- 
ward. By an adroit movement he thrust Carford 
aside and began to ply the lady with most extrava- 
gant and high-flown compliments, displaying an 
excess of devotion which witnessed more admira- 
tion than respect. She had treated me as a boy, 
but she did not tell him that he was a boy, although 
he was younger than I ; she listened with heightened 
colour and sparkling eyes. I glanced at Carford 
and found, to my surprise, no signs of annoyance 
at his unceremonious deposition. He was watch- 
ing the pair with a shrewd smile and seemed to 
mark with pleasure the girl’s pride and the young 
Duke’s evident passion. Yet I, who heard some- 
thing of what passed, had much ado not to step in 
and bid her pay no heed to homage that was empty 
if not dishonouring. 

7 


93 


SIMON DALE 


Suddenly the Duke turned round and called to me. 

“ Mr. Dale,” he cried, “ there needed but one 
thing to bind us closer, and here it is ! For you 
are, I learn, the friend of Mistress Quinton, and I 
am the humblest of her slaves, who serve all her 
friends for her sake.” 

“ Why, what would your Grace do for my sake ? ” 
asked Barbara. 

“ What wouldn’t I ? ” he cried, as if transported. 
Then he added rather low, “ Though I fear you’re 
too cruel to do an5rthing for mine.” 

“ I am listening to the most ridiculous speeches 
in the world for your Grace’s sake,” said Barbara 
with a pretty curtsey and a coquettish smile. 

“ Is love ridiculous ? ” he asked. “ Is passion a 
thing to smile at ? Cruel Mistress Barbara ! ” 

“ Won’t your Grace set it in verse ? ” said she. 

“ Your grace writes it in verse on my heart,” 
said he. 

Then Barbara looked across at me, it may be 
accidentally, yet it did not appear so, and she 
laughed merrily. It needed no skill to measure 
the meaning of her laugh, and I did not blame her 
for it. She had waited for years to avenge the kiss 
that I gave Cydaria in the Manor park at Hatch- 
stead; but was it not well avenged when I stood 
humbly, in deferential silence, at the back while 
his Grace the Duke sued for her favour, and half 
the Court looked on ? I will not set myself down 
a churl where nature has not made me one; I said 
in my heart, and I tried to say to her with my eyes, 
“ Laugh, sweet mistress, laugh ! ” For I love a 
girl who will laugh at you when the game runs in 
her favour. 

The Duke fell to his protestations again, and 

94 


WHAT CAME OF HONESTY 


Carford still listened with an acquiescence that 
seemed strange in a suitor for the lady’s hand. 
But now Barbara’s modesty took alarm; the signal 
of confusion flew in her cheeks, and she looked 
round, distressed to see how many watched them. 
Monmouth cared not a jot. I made bold to slip 
across to Carford, and said to him in a low tone, 

‘‘My lord, his Grace makes Mistress Barbara 
too much marked. Can’t you contrive to interrupt 
him ? ” 

He stared at me with a smile of wonder. But 
something in my look banished his smile and set a 
frown in its place. 

“ Must I have more lessons in manners from you, 
sir ? ” he asked. ‘ ‘ And do you include a discourse 
on the interrupting of princes ? ” 

“ Princes ? ” said I. 

“ The Duke of Monmouth is ” 

“The King’s son, my lord,” I interposed, and, 
carrying my hat in my hand, I walked up to Bar- 
bara and the Duke. She looked at me as I came, 
but not now mockingly ; there was rather an appeal 
in her eyes. 

“Your Grace will not let me lose my audience 
with the King? ” said I. 

He started, looked at me, frowned, looked at 
Barbara, frowned deeper still. I remained quiet, in 
an attitude of great deference. Puzzled to know 
whether I had spoken in sheer simplicity and igno- 
rance, or with a meaning which seemed too bold to 
believe in, he broke into a doubtful laugh. In an 
instant Barbara drew away with a curtsey. He did 
not pursue her, but caught my arm, and looked 
hard and straight in my face. I am happily some- 
what wooden of feature, and a man could not make 
95 


SIMON DALE 


me colour now, although a woman could. He took 
nothing by his examination. 

“ You interrupted me,” he said. 

“ Alas, your Grace knows how poor a courtier I 
am, and how ignorant ’ ’ 

“ Ignorant ! ” he cried ; “ yes, you’re mighty ig- 
norant, no doubt; but I begin to think you know 
a pretty face when you see it. Master Simon Dale. 
Well, I’ll not quarrel. Isn’t she the most admirable 
creature alive ? ” 

“ I had supposed Lord Carford thought so, sir.” 

‘‘ Oh ! And yet Lord Carford did not hurry me 
off to find the King ! But you ? What say you 
to the question ? ” 

“ I’m so dazzled, sir, by all the beautiful ladies of 
His Majesty’s Court that I can hardly perceive 
individual charms.” 

He laughed again, and pinehed my arm, saying, 

‘‘We all love what we have not. The Duke of 
York is in love with truth, the King with chastity, 
Buckingham with modesty of demeanour, Roches- 
ter with seemliness, Arlington with sincerity, and 
I, Simon, — I do fairly worship discretion! ” 

“ Indeed I fear I can boast of little, sir.” 

“ You shall boast of none, and thereby show the 
more, Simon. Come, there’s the King.” And he 
darted on, in equal good humour, as it seemed, with 
himself and me. Moreover, he lost no time on his 
errand ; for when I reached his side (since they who 
made way for him afforded me no sueh eivility) he 
had not only reached the King’s chair, but was half- 
way through his story of my answer to the Duke of 
York ; all chance of stopping him was gone. 

“Now I’m damned indeed,” thought I ; but I set 
my teeth, and listened with unmoved face. 

96 


WHAT CAME OF HONESTY 


At this moment the King was alone, save for our- 
selves and a little long-eared dog which lay on his 
lap and was incessantly caressed with his hand. He 
heard his son’s story with a face as impassive as I 
strove to render mine. At the end he looked up at 
me, asking, 

“What are these liberties which are so dear to 
you, sir ? ” 

My tongue had got me into trouble enough for 
one day, so I set its music to a softer tune. 

“ Those which I see preserved and honoured by 
your Majesty,” said I, bowing. 

Monmouth laughed, and clapped me on the back; 
but the King proceeded gravely : 

“ And this Reformed Religion that you set above 
my orders? ” 

“ The Faith, Sir, of which you are Defender. ’ ’ 

“ Come, Mr. Dale,” said he, rather surly, “ if you 
had spoken to my brother as skilfully as you fence 
with me, he would not have been angry.” 

I do not know what came over me. I said it in 
all honest simplicity, meaning only to excuse myself 
for the disrespect 1 had shown to the Duke; but I 
phrased the sentence most vilely, for I said : 

“ When His Royal Highness questioned me. Sir, 
I had to speak the truth.” 

Monmouth burst into a roar, and a moment later 
the King followed with a more subdued but not less 
thorough merriment. When his mirth subsided he 
said, 

“ True, Mr. Dale, I am a King, and no man is 
bound to speak truth to me. Nor, by heaven — and 
there’s a compensation — I to any man ! ” 

“Nor woman,” said Monmouth, looking at the 
ceiling in apparent absence of mind. 

97 


SIMON DALE 


“Nor even boy,” added the King, with an amused 
glance at his son. “ Well, Mr. Dale, can you serve 
me and this conscience of yours also ? ’ ’ 

“ Indeed I cannot doubt it. Sir,” said I. 

“ A man’s king should be his conscience,” said the 
King. 

“And what should be conscience to the King, 
Sir?” asked Monmouth. 

“Why, James, a recognition of what evil things 
he may bring into the world, if he doesn’t mind 
his ways.” 

Monmouth saw the hit, and took it with pretty 
grace, bending and kissing the King’s hand. 

“ It is difficult, Mr. Dale, to serve two masters,” 
said the King, turning again to me. 

“Your Majesty is my only master,” I began, but 
the King interrupted me, going on with some 
amusement ; 

“Yet I should like to have seen my brother.” 

“ Let him serve me. Sir,” cried Monmouth. “For 
I am firm in my love of these liberties, ay, and of 
the Reformed Religion.” 

“ I know, James, I know, ” nodded the King. “ It 
is grievous and strange, however, that you should 
speak as though my brother were not.” He smiled 
very maliciously at the young Duke, who fiushed 
red. The King suddenly laughed, and fell to fond- 
hng the little dog again. 

“ Then, Sir,” said Monmouth, ‘ ‘ Mr. Dale may 
come with me to Dover ? ” 

My heart leapt, for all the talk now was of 
Dover, of the gaiety that would be there, and the 
corresponding dulness in London, when the King 
and the Duke were gone to meet Madame d’ Or- 
leans. I longed to go, and the little hope I had 
98 


WHAT CAME OF HONESTY 


cherished that Darrell’s good offices with the Secre- 
tary of State would serve me to that end had van- 
ished. Now I was full of joy, although I watched 
the King’s face anxiously. 

For some reason the suggestion seemed to oc- 
casion him amusement; yet, although for the 
most part he laughed openly without respect of 
matter or person, he now bent over his little dog, 
as though he sought to hide the smile, and when 
he looked up again it hung about his bps like the 
mere ghost of mirth. 

“Why not ? ” said he. “ To Dover, by all means. 
Mr. Dale can serve you, and me, and his principles, 
as well at Dover as in London.” 

I bent on one knee and kissed his hand for the 
favour. When I sought to do the like to Mon- 
mouth he was very ready, and received my hom- 
age most regally. As I rose, the King was smil- 
ing at the pair of us in a whimsical melancholy 
way. 

“ Be off with you, boys,” said he, as though we 
were a pair of lads from the grammar school. “Ye 
are both fools ; and James there is but indifferently 
honest. But every hour’s a chance and every 
wench an angel to you. Do what you will, and God 
forgive your sins.” And he lay back in his great 
chair with a good-humoured, lazy, weary smile, as 
he idly patted the little dog. In spite of all that 
all men know of him, I felt my heart warm to him, 
and I knelt on my knee again, saying: 

“ God save your Majesty.” 

“ God is omnipotent,” said the King gravely. 
“ I thank you, Mr. Dale.” 

Thus dismissed, we walked off together, and I 
was awaiting the Duke’s pleasure to relieve him 
99 


SIMON DALE 


also of my company, when he turned to me with a 
smile, his white teeth gleaming; 

“ The Queen sends a maid of honour to wait on 
Madame,” said he. 

“ Indeed, sir ; it is very fitting.” 

“ And the Duchess sends one also. If you could 
choose from among the Duchess’s — for I swear no 
man in his senses would choose any of Her Majes- 
ty’s — whom would you choose, Mr. Dale ? ” 

“It is not for me to say, your Grace,” I an- 
swered. 

“Well,” said he, regarding medroUy, “I would 
choose Mistress Barbara Quinton.” And with a last 
laugh he ran off in hot pursuit of a lady who passed 
at that moment and cast a very kindly glance at him. 

Left alone, but in a good humour that the Duke’s 
last jest could not embitter, I stood watching the 
scene. The play had begun now on a stage at the 
end of the hall, but nobody seemed to heed it. 
They walked to and fro, talking always, ogling, 
quarrelhng, love-making, and intriguing. I caught 
sight here of great ladies, there of beauties whose 
faces were their fortune — or their ruin, which you 
will. Buckingham went by, fine as a galley in full 
sail. The Duke of York passed with Mr. Hudle- 
ston; my salute went unacknowledged. Clifford 
came soon after ; he bowed slightly when I bowed 
to him, but his heartiness was gone. A moment 
later Darrell was by my side ; his ill-humour was 
over, but he hfted his hands in comical despair. 

“ Simon, Simon, you’re hard to help,” said he. 
“ Alas, I must go to Dover without you, my friend ! 
Couldn’t you restrain your tongue ? ” 

“ My tongue has done me no great harm,” said 
I, “ and you needn’t go to Dover alone.” 

100 


WHAT CAME OF HONESTY 


“ What ? ” he cried, amazed. 

“ Unless the Duke of Monmouth and my Lord 
Arlington travel apart.” 

“ The Duke of Monmouth ? What have you to 
do with him ? ” 

“ I am to enter his service,” I answered proudly; 
“ and, moreover. I’m to go with him to Dover to 
meet Madame d’ Orleans.” 

“Why, why ? How comes this ! How were you 
brought to his notice ? ” 

I looked at him, wondering at his eagerness. 
Then I took him by the arm, and I said laugh- 
ingly : 

“ Come, I am teachable, and I have learnt my 
lesson.” 

“ What lesson do you mean ? ” 

“ To restrain my tongue,” said I. “ Let those 
who are curious as to the Duke of Monmouth’s 
reasons for his favour to me, ask the Duke.” 

He laughed, but I caught vexation in his laugh. 

“ True, you’re teachable, Simon,” said he. 


101 


CHAPTER VIII 


MADNESS, MAGIC, AND MOONSHINE 

When the curtain had fallen on the little-heeded 
play and the gay crowd began to disperse, I, per- 
ceiving that no more was to be seen or learnt, went 
home to my lodging alone. After our conver- 
sation Darrell had left me abruptly, and I saw him 
no more. But my own thoughts gave me occu- 
pation enough ; for even to a dull mind, and one 
unversed in Court intrigues, it seemed plain that 
more hung on this expedition to Dover than the 
meeting of the King’s sister with her brother. So 
far all men were of the same opinion ; beyond, 
their variance began. I had not thought to trouble 
my head about it, but, not having learnt yet that a 
small man lives most comfortably with the great 
by opening his eyes and ears only when bidden and 
keeping them tight locked for the rest, I was in- 
spired with eagerness to know the full meaning of 
the scene in which I was now to play a part, how- 
ever humble. Of one thing at least I was glad — 
here I touched on a matter more suitable to my 
condition — and this was that since Barbara Quin- 
ton was to go to Dover, I was to go also. But, 
alas, neither here did perplexity lag far behind ! 
It is easy to know that you are glad to be with a 
lady ; your very blood tells you ; but to say why is 
often difficult. I told myself that my sole cause 
for pleasure lay in the services I might be able to 
render to my old friend’s daughter; she would 
102 


MADNESS, MAGIC, AND MOONSHINE 


want me to run her errands and do her bidding ; 
an attentive cavalier, however lowly, seldom comes 
amiss ; these pleas I muttered to myself, but swell- 
ing pride refused them, and for once reason came 
as pride’s ally, urging that in such company as 
would assemble at Dover a girl might well need 
protection, no less than compliments. It was true; 
my new master’s bearing to her showed how true. 
And Carford was not, it seemed, a jealous lover. I 
was no lover — my life was vowed to another most 
unhappy love — but I was a gentleman, and (sweet 
thought 1) the hour might come when the face 
which had looked so mockingly at me to-night 
should turn again in appeal to the wit and arm of 
Simon Dale. I grew taller as I thought of that, 
and, coming just then to my own door, rapped 
with my cane as loudly and defiantly as though I 
had been the Duke of Monmouth himself, and not 
a gentleman in his suite. 

Loud as my rapping was, it brought no imme- 
diate answer. Again I knocked ; then feet came 
shuffling along the passage. I had aroused my 
sleepy wretch ; doubtless he would come groaning 
(for Jonah might not curse save in the way of re- 
ligion), and rubbing his eyes, to let me in. The 
door opened and Jonah appeared ; his eyes were 
not dull with sleep but seemed to blaze with some 
strong excitement ; he had not been to his bed, for 
his dress was not disordered, and a light burnt 
bright in my parlour. To crown aU, from the 
same parlour came the sound of a psalm most 
shrilly and villainously chanted through the nose 
in a voice familiar to my ears. I, unlike my ser- 
vant, had not bound myself against an oath where 
the case called, and with a round one that sent 
103 


SIMON DALE 


Jonah’s eyes in agony up to the ceiling, I pushed 
by him and ran into the parlour. A sonorous 
“ Amen ” came pat with my entrance ; Phineas 
Tate stood before me, lean and pale, but calm and 
placid. 

“ What in the devil’s name brings you here ? ” I 
cried. 

“ The service of God,” he answered solemnly. 

“ What, does it forbid sleep at nights ? ” 

“ Have you been sleeping, young man?” he asked, 
pertinently enough, as 1 must allow. 

‘‘ I have been paying my respects to His Ma- 
jesty,” said I. 

“ God forgive him and you,” was the retort. 

‘‘ Perhaps, sir, perhaps not,” I replied, for I was 
growing angry. “ But I have asked your inter- 
cession no more than has the King. If Jonah 
brought you here, it was without my leave ; I beg 
you to take your departure. Jonah, hold the door 
there for Mr. Tate.” 

The man raised his hand impressively. 

“ Hear my message first,” he said. “ I am sent 
unto you, that you may turn from sin. For the 
Lord has appointed you to be his instrument. 
Even now the plot is laid, even now men conspire 
to bring this kingdom again into the bondage of 
Rome. Have you no ears, have you no eyes, are 
you blind and deaf? Turn to me, and I will make 
you see and hear. For it is given to me to show 
you the way.” 

I was utterly weary of the fellow, and, in de- 
spair of getting quit of him, flung myself into a 
chair. But his next words caught my attention. 

“The man who lives here with you — what of 
him ? Is he not an enemy of God ? ” 

104 


MADNESS, MAGIC, AND MOONSHINE 

“Mr. Darrell is of the Romish faith,” said I, 
smiling in spite of myself, for a kinder soul than 
Darrell I had never met. 

Phineas came close to me, leaning over me with 
an admonishing forefinger and a mysterious air. 

“ What did he want with you ? ” he asked. 
“ Yet cleave to him. Be where he is, go where he 
goes.” 

“ If it comforts you, I am going where he goes,” 
said I, yawning. “For we are both going to 
Dover when the King goes.” 

“ It is God’s finger and God’s will ! ” cried Phin- 
eas, catching me by the shoulder. 

“ Enough ! ” I shouted, leaping up. “ Keep 
your hands off me, man, if you can’t keep your 
tongue. What is it to you that we go to Dover ? ” 

“ Ay, what ? ” came suddenly in Darrell’s voice. 
He stood in the doorway with a fierce and angry 
frown on his face. A moment later he was across 
the room and laid his hand on Phineas. “ Do you 
want another cropping of your ears ? ” he asked. 

“ Do your will on me,” cried the fanatic. And 
sweeping away his lanky hair he showed his ears ; 
to my horror they had been cropped level across 
their tops by the shears. “Do your will,” he 
shrieked, “I am ready. But your hour comes 
also, yea, your cup shall soon be full.” 

Darrell spoke to him in low stern tones. 

“ It may be more than ears, if you will not 
bridle your tongue. It’s not for you to question 
why the King comes or goes.” 

I saw Jonah’s face at the door, pale with fright 
as he looked at the two men. The interest of the 
scene grew on me ; the talk of Dover seemed to 
pursue me strangely. 


SIMON DALE 


‘‘ But this young man,” pursued Phineas, utter- 
ly unmoved by Darrell’s threat, “ is not of you ; 
he shall be snatched from the burning, and by his 
hand the Lord will work a great deliverance.” 

DarreU turned to me and said stiffly : 

“This room is yours, sir, not mine. Do you 
suffer the presence of this mischievous knave ? ” 

“ I suffer what I can’t help,” I answered. “ Mr. 
Tate doesn’t ask my pleasure in his coming and 
going any more than the King asks Mr. Tate’s in 
his.” 

“ It would do you no good, sir, to have it known 
that he was here,” Darrell reminded me with a sig- 
nificant nod of his head. 

Darrell had been a good friend to me and had 
won my regard, but, from an infirmity of temper 
that I have touched on before, his present tone set 
me against him. I take reproof badly, and age has 
hardly tamed me to it. 

“No good with whom ? ” I asked, smiling. “ The 
Duke of York ? My Lord Arlington ? Or do you 
mean the Duke of Monmouth ? It is he whom I 
have to please now.” 

“ None of them love Ranters,” answered Darrell, 
keeping his face stiff and inscrutable. 

“ But one of them may prefer a Ranter to a 
Papist,” laughed I. 

The thrust told, Darrell grew red. To myself I 
seemed to have hit suddenly on the key of a mystery. 
Was I then a pawn in the great game of the 
Churches, and Darrell another, and (to speak it 
with all due respect) these grand dukes little bet- 
ter ? Had Phineas Tate also his place on the board 
where souls made the stakes? In such a game 
none is too low for value, none too high for use. 

106 


MADNESS, MAGIC, AND MOONSHINE 


Surely my finger was on the spring ! At least I 
had confounded Darrell ; his enemy, taking my 
help readily enough, glared on him in most un- 
christian exultation, and then, turning to me, cried 
in a species of fierce ecstasy, 

‘‘ Think not that because you are unworthy you 
shall not serve God. The work sanctifies the in- 
strument, yea, it makes clean that which is foul. 
Verily, at His hour, God may work through a 
woman of sin.” And he fixed his eyes intently 
on me. 

I read a special meaning in his words ; my 
thoughts flew readily to the Cock and Pie in Drury 
Lane. 

“ Yea, through a woman of sin,” he repeated 
slowly and solemnly; then he faced round, swift 
as the wind, on Darrell, and, minding my friend s 
suUen scowl not a whit, cried to him, “Repent, 
repent, vengeance is near ! ” and so at last was out 
of the room before either of us could hinder him, 
had we wished, or could question him further. I 
heard the house-door shut behind him, and I rose, 
looking at DarreU with an easy smile. 

“ Madness and moonshine, good friend, ’ ’ said I. 
“Don’t let it disturb you. If Jonah admits the 
fellow again he shall answer for it.” 

“ Indeed, Mr. Dale, when I prayed you to share 
my lodging, I did not foresee the nature of your 
company.” 

“Fate more than choice makes a man’s com- 
pany,” said I. “ Now it’s you, now Phineas, now 
my lord the Secretary, and now his Grace the 
Duke. Indeed, seeing how destiny^ — or, if you will, 
chance — rules, a man may well be thought a fool 
who makes a plan or chooses a companion. For 
107 


SIMON DALE 

my own part, I am fate’s child and fate shall guide 
me.” 

He was still stiff and cold with me, but my friendly 
air and my evident determination to have no quarrel 
won him to civility if to no warmer demonstration 
of regard. 

“ Fate’s child ? ” he asked with a little scorn, but 
seating himself and smoothing his brow. “ You’re 
fate’s child ? Isn’t that an arrogant speech, 
Simon ? ” 

“ If it weren’t true, most arrogant,” I answered. 

‘ ‘ Come, I’ll tell you ; it’s too soon for bed and too 
late to go abroad. Jonah, bring us some wine, and 
if it be good, you shall be forgiven for admitting 
Master Tate.” 

Jonah went off and presently returned with a 
bottle, which we drank, while I, with the candour 
I had promised, told my friend of Betty Nasroth 
and her prophecy. He heard me with an attention 
which belied the contempt he asserted ; I have 
noticed that men pay heed to these things however 
much they laugh at them. At the end, growing 
excited not only with the wine but with the fumes 
of life which had been mounting into my young 
brain all the day, I leapt up, crying aloud : 

“ And isn’t it true ? Sha’n’t I know what he 
hides? Sha’n’t I drink of his cup? For isn’t it 
true ? Don’t I already, to my infinite misery, love 
where he loves?” For the picture of Nell had 
come suddenly across me in renewed strength and 
sweetness ; when I had spoken I dropped again 
into my chair and laid my head down on my arms. 

Silence followed; Darrell had no words of con- 
solation for my woes and left my love-lorn cry un- 
heeded ; presently then (for neglected sorrows do 
108 


MADNESS, MAGIC, AND MOONSHINE 

not thrive) I looked furtively at him between the 
fingers of my hand. He sat moody, thoughtful, 
and frowning. I raised my head and met his eyes. 
He leant across the table, saying in a sneering tone, 
“A fine witch, on my life! You should know 
what he hides ? ” 

“Ay.” 

“ And drink of his cup ? ” 

“ Ay, so she said.” 

He sat sunk in troubled thought, but I, being all 
this night torn to and fro by changing and warring 
moods, sprang up again and cried in boisterous scorn, 
“ What, you believe these fables ? Does God re- 
veal hidden things to old crones ? I thought you 
at Court were not the fools of such fancies 1 Aren’t 
they fitter for rustic churls, Mr. Darrell ? God save 
us, do we live in the days of King James ? ” 

He answered me shortly and sternly, as though I 
had spoken of things not to be named lightly. 

“ It is devil’s work, all of it.” 

“ Then the devil is busier than he seems, even 
after a night at Court,” I said. “ But be it whose 
work it wiU, I’ll do it. I’ll find what he hides. 
I’ll drink of his cup. Come, you’re glum I Drink, 
friend Darrell 1 Darrell, what’s in his cup, what 
does he hide ? Darrell, what does the Kang 
hide ? ” 

I had caught him by the shoulder and was 
staring in his face. I was all aglow, and my eyes, 
no doubt, shone bright with excitement and the 
exhilaration of the wine. The look of me, or the 
hour of the night, or the working of his own super- 
stition, got hold of him, for he sprang up, crying 
madly : 

“ My God, do you know ? ” and glared into my 
8 109 


SIMON DALE 

face as though I had been the very devil of whom 
I spoke. 

We stood thus for a full minute. But I grew 
cool before my companion, wonder working the 
change in me sooner than confusion could in him. 
For my random ravings had most marvellously 
struck on something more than my sober specula- 
tions could discern. The man before me was mad 
— or he had a secret. And friend Darrell was no 
madman. 

‘‘ Do I know ? ” I asked. “ Do I know what ? 
What could I, Simon Dale, know? What in 
Heaven’s name is there to know ? ” And I smiled 
cunningly, as though I sought to hide knowledge 
by a parade of ignorance. 

“Nothing, nothing, ” he muttered uneasily. “ The 
wine’s got into my head.” 

“ Yet you’ve drunk but two glasses ; I had the 
rest,” said I. 

“ That damned Ranter has upset me,” he growled. 
“ That, and the talk of your cursed witch.” 

“ Can Ranters and witches make secrets where 
there are none ? ” said I with a laugh. 

“ They can make fools think there are secrets 
where there are none,” said he rudely. 

“ And other fools ask if they’re known,” I retorted, 
but with a laugh ; and I added, “ I’m not for a 
quarrel, secret or no secret, so if that’s your purpose 
in sitting the night through, to bed with you, my 
friend.” 

Whether from prudence, or whether my good hu- 
mour rebuked his temper, he grew more gentle ; he 
looked at me kindly enough and sighed, as he said : 

“ I was to be your guide in London, Simon ; but 
you take your own path.” 

110 


MADNESS, MAGIC, AND MOONSHINE 


“ The path you showed me was closed in my 
face,” said I, ‘‘ and I took the first that was opened 
to me.” 

“ By the Duke of Monmouth ? ” 

‘‘ Yes — or by another, if it had chanced to be 
another.” 

“But why take any, Simon?” he urged per- 
suasively. ‘ ‘ Why not live in peace and leave these 
great folk alone ? ” 

“ With all my heart,” I cried. “ Is it a bargain ? 
Whither shall we fly from the turmoil ? ” 

“ We ! ” he exclaimed with a start. 

“ Aren’t you sick of the same disease ? Isn’t the 
same medicine best for you ? Come, shall we both 
go to-morrow to Hatchstead — a pretty village, Mr. 
Darrell — and let the great folk go alone to Dover ? ” 

“You know I cannot. I serve my Lord Arhng- 
ton.” 

“ And I the Duke of Monmouth.” 

“ But my Lord is the King’s servant.” 

“ And his Grace the King’s son.” 

“ Oh, if you’re obstinate ” he began, frowning. 

“ As fate, as prophecy, as witch, as Ranter, as 
devil, or as yourself ! ” I said, laughing and throw- 
ing myself into a chair as he rose and moved 
towards the door. 

“No good will come of it to you,” he said, pass- 
ing me on his way. 

“ What loyal servant looks to make a profit of 
his service ? ” I asked, smiling. 

“ I wish you could be warned.” 

“I’m warned, but not turned, Darrell. Come, 
we part friends ? ” 

“ Why, yes, we are friends,” he answered, but 
with a touch of hesitation. 

Ill 


SIMON DALE 


“ Saving our duty to the King ? ” 

“ If need should come for that reservation, yes,” 
said he gravely. 

‘‘ And saving,” said I, “ the liberties of the King- 
dom and the safety of the Reformed Religion — 
if need should come for these reservations, Mr, 
Darrell,” and I laughed to see the frown gather 
again on his brow. But he made no reply, being 
unable to trust his self-control or answer my light 
banter in its own kind. He left me with no more 
than a shake of his head and a wave of his hand ; 
and although we parted thus in amity and with no 
feelings save of kindness for one another, I knew 
that henceforth there must be a difference in our 
relations ; the days of confidence were gone. 

The recognition of my loss weighed little with 
me. The diffidence born of inexperience and of 
strangeness to London and the Court was wearing 
away; the desire for another’s arm to lean on and 
another’s eyes to see with gave way before a young 
man’s pride in his own arm’s strength and the keen- 
ness of his own vision. There was sport afoot; 
ay, for me in those days all things were sport, even 
the high disputes of Churches or of Kingdoms. 
We look at the world through our own glasses; 
little as it recks of us, it is to us material and 
opportunity ; there in the dead of night I wove a 
dream wherein the part of hero was played by 
Simon Dale, with Kings and Dukes to bow him 
on and off the stage and Christendom to make an 
audience. These dream-doings are brave things : 
I pity the man who performs none of them ; for in 
them you may achieve without labour, enjoy with- 
out expense, triumph without cruelty, ay, and sin 
mightily and grandly with never a reckoning for 
112 


MADNESS, MAGIC, AND MOONSHINE 


it. Yet do not be a mean villain even in your 
dreaming, for that sticks to you when you awake. 

I had supposed myself alone to be out of bed and 
Jonah Wall to have slunk off in fear of my anger. 
But now my meditations were interrupted by his 
entrance. He crept up to me in an uneasy fashion, 
but seemed to take courage when I did not break 
into abuse, but asked him mildly why he had not 
sought rest and what he wanted with me. His 
first answer was to implore me to protect him from 
Mr. Darrell’s wrath ; through Phineas Tate, he told 
me timidly, he had found grace and he could deny 
him nothing ; yet, if I bade him, he would not 
admit him again. 

“ Let him come, ” said I carelessly. “ Besides, 
we shall not be long here. For you and I are 
going on a journey, Jonah.” 

‘‘ A journey, sir ? ” 

“ Ay, I go with the Duke of Monmouth, and 
you go with me, to Dover when the King goes.” 

Now, either Dover was on everybody’s &ain, or 
was very sadly on my brain, for I swear even this 
fellow’s eye seemed to brighten as I named the 
place. 

“ To Dover, sir ? ” 

“No less. You shall see all the gaiety there is 
to be seen, Jonah.” 

The flush of interest had died away ; he was dole- 
fully tranquil and submissive again. 

“Well, what do you want with me?” I asked, 
for I did not wish him to suspect that I detected 
any change in his manner. 

“A lady came here to-day, sir, in a very fine 
coach with Flemish horses, and asked for you. 
Hearing you were from home, she called to me 
113 


SIMON DALE 


and bade me take a message for you. I prayed 
her to write it, but she laughed, and said she spoke 
more easily than she wrote ; and she bade me say 
that she wished to see you.” 

“ What sort of lady was she, Jonah ? ” 

‘‘ She sat all the while in the coach, sir, but she 
seemed not tall; she was very merry, sir.” Jonah 
sighed deeply; with him merriment stood high 
among the vices of our nature. 

“ She didn’t say for what purpose she wanted 
me ? ” I asked as carelessly as I could. 

“No, sir. She said you would know the pur- 
pose, and that she would look for you at noon to- 
morrow. ” 

“ But where, Jonah ? ” 

“ At a house called Burford House, sir, in Chel- 
sea.” 

“ She gave you no name ? ” 

“ I asked her name, and she gave me one.” 

“ What was it ? ” 

“It was a strange, heathenish name, and she 
laughed as she gave it ; indeed she laughed all the 
time.” 

“ There’s no sin in laughter,” said I dryly. “ You 
may leave me. I need no help in undressing.” 

“ But the name ” 

“ By Heaven, man, I know the name ! Be off 
with you ! ” 

He shuffled off, his whole manner expressing 
reprobation, whether most of my oath, or of the 
heathenish name, or of the lady who gave it, I 
know not. 

Well, if he were so horror-stricken at these things, 
what would he say at learning with whom he had 
talked ? Perhaps he would have preached to her, 
114 


MADNESS, MAGIC, AND MOONSHINE 


as had Phineas Tate, his master in religion. For, 
beyond doubt, that heathenish name was Cydaria, 
and that fine coach with Flemish horses — I left the 
question of that coach unanswered. 

The moment the door was shut behind my ser- 
vant I sprang to my feet, crying in a low but very 
vehement voice, “ Never ! ” I would not go. Had 
she not wounded me enough ? Must I tear away 
the bandage from the gash ? She had tortured me, 
and asked me now, with a laugh, to be so good as 
stretch myself on the rack again. I would not go. 
That laugh was cruel insolence. I knew that 
laugh. Ah, why so I did — I knew it well — how 
it rose and rippled and fell, losing itself in echoes 
scarcely audible, but rich with enticing mirth. 
Surely she was cunningly fashioned for the undo- 
ing of men ; yes, and of herself, poor soul. What 
were her coaches, and the Flemish horses, and the 
house called Burford House in Chelsea ? A wave 
of memory swept over me, and I saw her simple — 
well then, more simple ! — though always merry, in 
the sweet-smelling fields at home, playing with my 
boy’s heart as with a toy that she knew little of, 
but yet by instinct handled deftly. It pleased her 
mightily, that toy, and she seemed to wonder when 
she found that it felt. She did not feel; joy was 
hers, nothing deeper. Yet could she not, might 
she not, would she not ? I knew what she was ; 
who knew what she might be ? The picture of 
her rose again before my eyes, inviting a desperate 
venture, spurring me on to an enterprise in which 
the effort seemed absurdity, and success would 
have been in the eyes of the world calamity. Yet 
an exaltation of spirit was on me, and I wove 
another dream that drove the first away^ now I 
115 


SIMON DALE 


did not go to Dover to play my part in great 
affairs and jostle for higher place in a world 
where in God’s eyes all places are equal and all 
low, but away back to the country I had loved, 
and not alone. She should be with me, love should 
dress penitence in glowing robes, and purity be 
decked more gloriously than all the pomps of sin. 
Could it be? If it could, it seemed a prize for 
which all else might be willingly forgone — an 
achievement rare and great, though the page of no 
history recorded it. 

Phineas Tate had preached to her, and gone 
away, empty and scorned. I would preach too, in 
different tones and with a different gospel. Yet 
my words should have a sweetness his had not, my 
gospel a power that should draw where his repelled. 
For my love, shaken not yet shattered, wounded 
not dead, springing again to full life and force, 
should breathe its vital energy into her soul and 
impart of its endless abundance till her heart was 
full. Entranced by this golden vision, I rose and 
looked from the window at the dawning day, pray- 
ing that mine might be the task, the achievement, 
the reward. 

Bright dawned that day as I, with brighter 
brightness in my heart, climbed the stairs that led 
to my bedroom. But as I reached the door of it, 
I paused. There came a sound from the little 
closet beyond, where Jonah stretched his weary 
legs, and, as I hoped, had forgotten in harmless 
sleep the soul that he himself tormented worse 
than would the hell he feared. No, he did not 
rest. From his closet came low, fervent, earnest 
prayers. Listening a minute, half in scorn, half in 
pity, and in no unkindness, I heard him. 

116 


MADNESS, MAGIC, AND MOONSHINE 

“Praise be to God,” he said, “Who maketh the 
crooked places straight, and openeth a path through 
the wilderness, and setteth in the hand of His ser- 
vant a sword wherewith to smite the ungodly even 
in high places.” 

What crooked places were made straight, what 
path opened, what sword set in Jonah’s hand ? Of 
the ungodly in high places there was no lack in the 
days of King Charles. But was Jonah Wall to 
smite them ? I opened my door with a laugh. 
We were all mad that night, and my madness 
lasted till the morning. Yes, till the morning 
grew full my second dream was with me. 


117 


CHAPTER IX 


OF GEMS AND PEBBLES 

How I sought her, how I found her, that fine 
house of hers with the lawn round it and the river 
by it, the stare of her lackeys, the pomp of her 
living, the great lord who was bowed out as I went 
in, the maid who bridled and glanced and laughed 
— they are all there in my memory, but blurred, 
confused, beyond clear recall. Yet all that she 
was, looked, said, ay, or left the clearer for being 
unsaid, is graven on my memory in lines that no 
years obliterate and no change of mind makes hard 
to read. She wore the great diamond necklace 
whose purchase was a fresh text with the serious, 
and a new jest for the wits; on her neck it gleamed 
and flashed as brilliantly and variously as the daz- 
zling turns in her talk and the unending chase of 
fleeting moods across her face. Yet I started from 
my lodging, sworn to win her, and came home 
sworn to have done with her. Let me tell it; I 
told it to myself a thousand times in the days that 
followed. But even now, and for all the times 
that the scene has played itself again before my 
unwilling eyes, I can scarcely tell whence and how, 
at the last, the change came. I think that the 
pomp itself, the lord and the lackeys, the fine 
house, and all her state struck as it were cold at 
my heart, dooming to failure the mad appeal which 
they could not smother. But there was more ; for 
all these might have been, and yet not reached or 
118 


OF GEMS AND PEBBLES 


infected her soul. But when I spoke to her in 
words that had for me a sweetness so potent as to 
win me from all hesitation and make as nothing 
the whole world beside, she did not understand. I 
saw that she tried to understand ; when she failed, 
I had failed also. The flower was dead ; what use 
then to cherish or to water it ? I had not thought 
it was dead, but had prayed that, faded and choked 
though it were, yet it might find life in the sun- 
shine of my love and the water of her tears. But 
she did not weep, unless in a passing petulance 
because I asked what she could not give ; and the 
clouds swept dark over my love s bright face. 

And now, alas, I am so wise that I cannot 
weep ! I must rather smile to have asked, than 
lament that my asking was in vain. I must won- 
der at her patience in refusing kindly, and be no 
more amazed that she refused at last. Yet this 
sad wisdom that sits well on age I do not love in 
youth. I was a fool; but if to hold that good 
shall win and a true love prevail be folly, let my 
sons be fools after me until their sons in turn catch 
up from them the torch of that folly which illumi- 
nates the world. 

You would have said that she had not looked to 
see me, for she started as though in surprise when 
I stood before her, saying, “You sent for me.” 

“ I sent for you ? ” she cried, still as if puzzled ; 
then, “ Ah, I remember. A whim seized me as I 
passed your lodging. Yet you deserved no such 
favour, for you treated me very rudely — why, yes, 
with great unkindness — last time we met. But I 
wouldn’t have you think me resentful. Old friends 
must forgive one another, mustn’t they ? Besides, 
you meant no hurt, you were vexed, perhaps you 
119 


SIMON DALE 


were even surprised. Were you surprised? No, 
you weren’t surprised. But were you grieved, 
Simon ? ” 

I had been gazing dully at her, now I spoke 
heavily and dully. 

“You wear gems there on your neck,” said I, 
pointing at the necklace. 

“ Isn’t the neck worthy ? ” she murmured quickly 
yet softly, pulling her dress away to let me see the 
better, and raising her eyes to mine. 

“Yes, very worthy. But wouldn’t you be 
grieved to find them pebbles ? ” 

“ By my faith, yes ! ” she laughed, “ for I paid 
the price of gems for them.” 

“ I also paid the price of a gem,” said I, “ and 
thought I had it.” 

“ And it proved a pebble ? ” said she, leaning over 
me ; for I had seated myself in a chair, being in no 
mood for ceremony. 

“Yes, a pebble; a very pebble, a common peb- 
ble.” 


“ A common pebble ! ” she echoed. “ Oh, Si- 
mon, cruel Simon ! But a pretty bright pebble ? 
It looked like a gem, Simon ? ” 

“ God forgive you, yes. In Heaven’s name — 
then — long ago, when you came to Hatchstead — 

what then ? Weren’t you then ” 

“No gem,” said she. “Even then a pebble.” 
Her voice sank a little, as though for a single 
moment some unfamiliar shame came on her. 
“ A common pebble,” she added, echoing my 
words. 

“Then God forgive you,” said I again, and I 
leant my head on my hand. 

“ And you, good Simon, do you forgive me ? ” 
120 


OF GEMS AND PEBBLES 


I was silent. She moved away petulantly, crying, 

“You’re all so ready to call on God to forgive ! 
Is forgiveness God’s only ? Will none of you for- 
give for yourselves ? Or are you so righteous that 
you can’t do what God must? ” 

I sprang up and came to her. 

“ Forgive ? ” I cried in a low voice. “ Ay, I’ll 
forgive. Don’t talk of forgiveness to me. I came 
to love.” 

“To love? Now?” Her eyes grew wide in 
wonder, amusement, and delight. 

“Yes,” said I. 

“You loved the gem; you’d love the pebble? 
Simon, Simon, where is Madame your mother, 
where my good friend the Vicar? Ah, where’s 
your virtue, Simon ? ” 

“ Where yours shall be,” I cried, seizing and cov- 
ering her hands in mine. “ Where yours, there 
mine, and both in love that makes delight and vir- 
tue one.” I caught a hand to my lips and kissed it 
many times. “No sin comes but by desire,” said 
I, pleading, “ and if the desire is no sin, there is no 
sin. Come with me ! I will fulfil all your desire 
and make your sin dead.” 

She shrank back amazed ; this was strange talk 
to her; yet she left her hand in mine. 

“ Come with you ? But whither, whither ? We 
are no more in the fields at Hatchstead.” 

“We could be again,” I cried. “Alone in the 
fields at Hatchstead.” 

Even now she hardly understood what I would 
have, or, understanding, could not believe that she 
understood rightly. 

“You mean — leave — leave London and go with 
you ? With you alone ? ” 

121 


SIMON DALE 


“Yes — alone with your husband.” 

She pulled her hand away with a jerk, crying, 
“ You’re mad ! ” 

“Maybe. Let me be mad, and be mad your- 
self also, sweetheart If both of us are mad, what 
hurt ? ” 

“ What, I — I go — I leave the town — I leave 
the Court? And you ? — ^You’re here to seek your 
fortune ! ” 

“Mayn’t I dream that I’ve found it?” And 
again I caught her hand. 

After a moment she drew nearer to me ; I felt 
her fingers press mine in tenderness. 

“ Poor Simon I ” said she with a little laugh. 
“ Indeed he remembers Cydaria well. But Cyda- 
ria, such as she was, even Cydaria, is gone. And 
now I am not she.” Then she laughed again, 
crying, “ What folly ! ” 

“ A moment ago you didn’t call it folly.” 

“ Then I was doubly a fool,” she answered with 
the first touch of bitterness. “ For folly it is, deep 
and black. I am not, — nay, was I ever? — one to 
ramble in green fields all day and go home to a 
cottage.” 

“Never,” said I. “Nor will be, save for the 
love of a man you love. Save for that, what wo- 
man has been? But for that, how many ! ” 

“ Why, very few,” said she with a gentle little 
laugh. “And of that few — I am not one. Nay, 
nor do I — am I cruel? — nor do I love you, Simon.” 

“ You swear it ? ” 

“ But a little — as a friend, an old friend. ” 

“ And a dear one ? ” 

“One dear for a certain pleasant folly that he 
has.” 


122 


OF GEMS AND PEBBLES 

“ You’ll come ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Why not ? But in a day neither you nor I 
would ask why.” 

“ I don’t ask now. There’s a regiment of rea- 
sons.” Her laugh burst out again; yet her eyes 
seemed tender. 

“ Give me one.” 

“ I have given one. I don’t love you.” 

“ I won’t take it.” 

“ I am what I am.” 

“ You should be what I would make you.” 

“ You’re to live at the Court. To serve the 
Duke of Monmouth, isn’t it? ” 

“ What do I care for that? Are there no 
others ? ” 

“ Let go my hand — No, let it go. See now. I’ll 
show you. There’s a ring on it.” 

“ I see the ring.” 

“ A rich one.” 

“ Very rich.” 

“ Simon, do you guess who set it there ? ” 

“ He is your King only while you make him 
such.” 

“Nay,” she cried with sudden passion, “I am 
set on my course.” Then came defiance. “I 
wouldn’t change it. Didn’t I tell you once that I 
might have power with the King ? ” 

“Power? What’s that to you? What’s it to 
any of us beside love ? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t know anything about your love,” 
she cried fretfully, “ but I know what I love — the 
stir, and the frowns of great ladies, and the court- 
ing of great lords. Ah, but why do I talk? Do 
we reason with a madman ? ” 

123 


SIMON DALE 


If we are touched ever so little with his dis- 
ease.” 

She turned to me with sparkling eyes ; she spoke 
very softly. 

“ Ah, Simon, you too have a tongue ! Can you 
also lure women ? I think you could. But keep 
it, Simon, keep it for your wife. There’s many a 
maid would gladly take the title, for you’re a fee 
figure, and I think that you know the way to a 
woman’s heart.” 

Standing above me (for I had sunk back in my 
chair) she caressed my cheek gently with her hand. 
I was checked, but not beaten. My madness as 
she called it (as must not I also caU it?), was still 
in me, hot and surging. Hope was yet alive, for 
she had shown me tenderness, and once it had 
seemed as though a passing shadow of remorse had 
shot across her brightness. Putting out my hands, 
I took both of hers again, and so looked up in her 
face, dumbly beseeching her; a smile quivered on 
her lips as she shook her head at me. 

“ Heaven keeps you for better things,” she said. 

‘‘ I’d be the judge of them myself,” I cried, and 
I sought to carry her hands to my lips. 

“ Let me go,” she said ; “ Simon, you must let 
me go. Nay, you must. So ! Sit there, and I’ll 
sit opposite to you.” 

She did as she said, seating herself over against 
me, although quite close. She looked me in the 
face. Presently she gave a little sigh. 

‘‘Won’t you leave me now?” she asked with a 
plaintive smile. 

I shook my head, but made no other answer. 

“ I’m sorry,” she went on softly, “ that I came 
to Hatchstead ; I’m sorry that I brought you to 
124 


OF GEMS AND PEBBLES 


London, that I met you in the lane, that I brought 
you here to-day. I didn’t guess your folly. IVe 
lived with players, and with courtiers, and with — 
with one other ; so I didn’t dream of such folly as 
yours. Yes, I’m sorry.” 

“ You can give me joy infinitely greater than any 
sorrow I have had by you,” said 1 in a low voice. 

On this she sat silent for a full minute, seeming 
to study my face. Then she looked to right and 
left, as though she would fain have escaped. She 
laughed a little, but grew grave again, saying, ‘ ‘ I 
don’t know why I laughed,” and sighing heavily. 
I watched every motion and change in her, waiting 
for her to speak again. At last she spoke. 

“You won’t be angry with me, Simon? ” she 
asked coaxingly. 

“ Why, no,” I answered, wondering. 

“ Nor run quite mad, nor talk of death, nor any 
horrors ? ” 

“ I’ll hear all you say calmly,” I answered. 

She sat looking at me in a whimsical distress, 
seeming to deprecate wrath and to pray my pardon 
yet still to hint amusement deep-hidden in her 
mind. Then she drew herself up, and a strange 
and most pitiful pride appeared on her face. I 
did not know the meaning of it. She leant for- 
ward towards me, blushing a little, and whispered 
my name. 

“I’m waiting to hear you,” said I; my voice 
came hard, stern, and cold. 

“ You’ll be cruel to me, I know you will,” she cried 
petulantly. 

“ On my life, no,” said I. “ What is it you want 
to say ? ” 

She was like a child who shows you some loved 
9 125 


SIMON DALE 


forbidden toy that she should not have, but prizes 
above all her trifles ; there was that sly joy, that 
ashamed exultation in her face. 

“ I have promises,” she whispered, clasping her 
hands and nodding her head at me. “Ah, they 
make songs on me, and laugh at me, and Castle- 
maine looks at me as though I were the street-dirt 
under her feet. But they shall see! Ay, they 
shall see that I can match them ! ” She sprang to 
her feet in reckless merriment, crying, “ Shall I 
make a pretty countess, Simon ? ” She came near 
to me and whispered with a mysterious air, 
Simon, Simon ! ’ ’ 

I looked up at her sparkling eyes. 

“ Simon, what’s he whom you serve, whom you’re 
proud to serve ? Who is he, I say ? ” She broke 
into a laugh of triumph. 

But I, hearing her laugh, and finding my heart 
filled with a sudden terror, spread my hands over 
my eyes and fell back heavily in my chair, like a 
sick man or a drunken. For now, indeed, I saw 
that my gem was but a pebble. And the echo of 
her laugh rang in my ears. 

“ So I can’t come, Simon,” I heard her say. “You 
see that I can’t come. No, no, I can’t come”; 
and again she laughed. 

I sat where I was, hearing nothing but the echo 
of her laugh, unable to think save of the truth that 
was driven so cruelly into my mind. The first 
realising of things that cannot be undone brings to 
a young man a fierce impotent resentment ; that 
was in my heart, and with it a sudden revulsion 
from what I had desired, as intemperate as the 
desire, as cruel, it may be, as the thing which gave 
it birth. Nell’s laughter died away, and she was 
126 


OF GEMS AND PEBBLES 


silent. Presently I felt a hand rest on my hands 
as though seeking to convey sympathy in a grief 
but half-understood. I shrank away, moving my 
hands till hers no longer touched them. There are 
little acts, small matters often, on which remorse 
attends while life lasts. Even now my heart is sore 
that I shrank away from her; she was different now 
in nothing from what I had known of her; but I 
who had desired passionately now shunned her ; the 
thing had come home to me, plain, close, in an 
odious intimacy. Yet I wish I had not shrunk 
away ; before I could think I had done it ; and I 
found no words ; better perhaps that I attempted 
none. 

I looked up ; she was holding out the hand before 
her ; there was a puzzled smile on her lips. 

“ Does it burn, does it prick, does it soil, Simon ? ” 
she asked. “ See, touch it, touch it. It is as it was, 
isn’t it ? ” She put it close by my hand, waiting 
for me to take it, but I did not take it. ‘‘ As it 
was when you kissed it,” said she; but still I did 
not take it. 

I rose to my feet slowly and heavily, like a tired 
man whose legs are reluctant to resume their load. 
She stood quite still, regarding me now with alarmed 
and wondering eyes. 

“ It’s nothing,” I stammered. ‘‘ Indeed it’s 
nothing; only I hadn’t thought of it.” 

Scarcely knowing what I did, I began to move 
towards the door. An unreasoned instinct impelled 
me to get away from her. Yet my gaze was drawn 
to her face ; I saw her lips pouting and her cheek 
flushed, the brightness of her eyes grew clouded. 
She loved me enough to be hurt by me, if no more. 
A pity seized me; turning, I feU on my knee, 
127 


SIMON DALE 

and, seizing the hand whose touch I had refused, I 
kissed it. 

“ Ah, you kiss my hand now ! ” she cried, break- 
ing into smiles again. 

“ I kiss Cydaria’s hand,” said I. “ For in truth 
I’m sorry for my Cydaria.” 

“ She was no other than I am,” she whispered, 
and now with a touch of shame ; for she saw that I 
felt shame for her. 

“ Not what is hurts us, but what we know,” said 
I. “ Good-bye, Cydaria,” and again I kissed her 
hand. She drew it away from me and tossed her 
head, crying angrily : 

“ I wish I hadn’t told you.” 

“In God’s name don’t wish that,” said I, and 
drew her gaze on me again in surprise. I moved 
on my way, the only way my feet could tread. But 
she darted after me, and laid her hand on my arm. 
I looked at her in amazed questioning. 

“You’ll come again, Simon, when ?” The 

smile would not be denied though it came timidly, 
afraid for its welcome and distrustful of its right. 
“ When you’re better, Simon ? ” 

I longed — with all my heart I longed — to be 
kind to her. How could the thing be to her what 
it was to me? She could not understand why I was 
aghast; extravagant despair, all in the style of a 
vanquished rival, would have been easy for her to 
meet, to ridicule, to comfort. I knew all this, but 
I could not find the means to affect it or to cover 
my own distress. 

You’ll come again then ? ” she insisted plead- 
ingly. 

“No,” said I, bluntly, and cruelly with unwilling 
cruelty. 


128 


OF GEMS AND PEBBLES 


At that a sudden gust of passion seized her and 
she turned on me, denouncing me fiercely, in terms 
she took no care to measure, for a prudish virtue 
that for good or evil was not mine, and for a nar- 
rowness of which my reason was not guilty. I stood 
defenceless in the storm, crying at the end no more 
than, “ I don’t think thus of you.” 

“ You treat me as though you thought thus,” she 
cried. Yet her manner softened and she came 
across to me, seeming now as if she might fall to 
weeping. But at the instant the door opened and 
the saucy maid who had ushered me in entered, 
running hastily to her mistress, in whose ears 
she whispered, nodding and glancing the while 
at me. 

“ The King ! ” cried Nell, and, turning to me, 
she added hastily : “ He’d best not find you here.” 
“ I ask no better than to be gone,” said I. 

“I know, I know,” she cried. “We’re not dis- 
turbed! The King’s coming interrupts nothing, 
for all’s finished. Go then, go, out of my sight.” 
Her anger seemed to rise again, while the serving- 
girl stared back astonished as she passed out. But 
if she went to stay the King’s coming, she was too 
late. For he was in the doorway the instant she 
had passed through ; he had heard Nell’s last speech, 
and now he showed himself, asking easily, 

‘ ‘ Who’s the gentleman of whose society you are 
so ready to be relieved ? ” 

I turned, bowing low. The King arched his 
brows. It may well be that he had had enough of 
me already, and that he was not well pleased to 
stumble on me again and in this place. But he 
said nothing, merely turning his eyes to Nell in 
question. 


129 


SIMON DALE 


‘‘You know him, Sir,” said she, throwing herself 
into a chair. 

“Yes, I know him,” said the King. “But, if I may 
ask without presumption, what brings him here ? ” 

Nell looked at the pair of us, the King and Simon 
Dale, and answered coolly, 

“ My invitation.’’ 

“ The answer is all sufficient,” bowed the King. 
“ I’m before my time then, for I received a like 
honour.” 

“No, he’s after his,” said she. “But as you 
heard. Sir, I was urging him to go.” 

“ Not on my account, I pray,” said the King 
politely. 

“No, on his. He’s not easy here.” 

“ Yet he outstayed his time ! ” 

“We had a matter of business together. Sir. He 
came to ask something of me, but matters did not 
prove to be as he thought.” 

“ Indeed you must tell me more, or should have 
told me less. I’m of a mighty curious disposition. 
Won’t Mr. Dale sit ? ” And the King seated him- 
self. 

“ I will beg your Majesty’s permission to depart,” 
said I. 

“ All requests here, sir, lie with this lady to grant 
or to refuse. In this house I am a servant, — nay, 
a slave.” 

Nell rose and coming to the side of the King’s 
chair stood there. 

“ Had things been other than they are, Mr. Dale 
would have asked me to be his wife,” said she. 

A silence followed. Then the King remarked, 

“ Had things been other than they are, Mr. Dale 
would have done well.” 


130 


OF GEMS AND PEBBLES 


“And had they been other than they are, I 
might well have answered yes,” said Nell. 

“Why yes, very well,” said the King. “For 
Mr. Dale is, I’m very sure, a gentleman of spirit 
and honour, although he seems, if I may say so, 
just now rather taciturn.” 

“ But as matters are, Mr. Dale would have no 
more of me.” 

“It’s not for me,” said the King, “to quarrel 
with his resolve, although I’m free to marvel at it.” 

“ And asks no more of me than leave to depart.” 

“ Do you find it hard, madame, to grant him 
that much ? ” 

She looked in the King’s face and laughed in 
amusement, but whether at him or me or herself I 
cannot tell. 

“Why, yes, mighty hard,” said she. “It’s 
strange how hard.” 

“ By my faith, ” said the King, “ I begin to be 
glad that Mr. Dale asked no more. For if it be 
hard to grant him this little thing, it might have 
been easy to grant him more. Come, is it granted 
to him ? ” 

“ Let him ask for it again,” said she, and leaving 
the King she came and stood before me, raising her 
eyes to mine. “Would you leave me, Simon?” 
she cried. 

“ Yes, I would leave you, madame,” said I. 

“ To go whither ? ” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“Yet the question isn’t hard,” interposed the 
King. “ And the answer is — elsewhere.” 

“ Elsewhere ! ” cried Nell. “ But what does that 
mean. Sir ? ” 

“Nay, I don’t know her name,” said the King. 

131 


SIMON DALE 


“ Nor, maybe, does Mr. Dale yet. But he’ll learn 
and so, I hope, shall I, if I can be of service to 
him.” 

“ I’m in no haste to learn it,” cried Nell. 

“ Why no,” laughed the King. 

She turned to me again, holding out her hand as 
though she challenged me to refuse it. 

“ Good-bye, Simon,” said she, and she broke into 
a strange little laugh that seemed devoid of mirth, 
and to express a railing mockery of herself and what 
she did. 

I saw the King watching us with attentive eyes 
and brows bent in a frown. 

“ Good-bye,” said I. Looking into her eyes, I 
let my gaze dwell long on her ; it dwelt longer than 
I meant, reluctant to take last leave of old friends. 
Then I kissed her hand and bowed very low to the 
King, who rephed with a good-natured nod ; then 
turning I passed out of the room. 

I take it that the change from youth to manhood, 
and again from full manhood to decline, comes 
upon us gradually, never ceasing but never swift, 
as mind and body alike are insensibly transformed 
beneath the assault of multitudinous unperceived 
forces of matter and of circumstances; it is the 
result we know ; that, not the process, is the reality 
for us. We awake to find done what our sleepy 
brains missed in the doing, and after months or 
years perceive ourselves in a second older by all 
that period. We are jogged by the elbow, roused 
ruthlessly and curtly bidden to look and see how 
we are changed, and wonder, weep, or smile as may 
seem best to us in face of the metamorphosis. A 
moment of such awakening came to me now; I 
seemed a man different from him who had, no great 
132 


OF GEMS AND PEBBLES 


number of minutes before, hastened to the house, 
inspired by an insane hope, and aflame with a pas- 
sion that defied reason and summed up hfe in long- 
ing. The lackeys were there still, the maid’s 
smile altered only by a fuller and more roguish 
insinuation. On me the change had passed, and I 
looked open-eyed on what I had been. Then 
came a smile, close neighbour to a groan, and the 
scorn of my old self which is the sad delirium 
wrought by moving time ; but the lackey held the 
door for me and I passed out. 

A noise sounded from above as the casement of 
the window was thrown open. She looked out ; 
her anger was gone, her emotion also seemed gone. 
She stood there smiling, very kindly but with 
mockery. She held in either hand a flower. One 
she smelt and held her face long to it, as though 
its sweetness kept her senses willing prisoners; 
turning to the other, she smelt it for a short instant 
and then drew away, her face, that told every mood 
with unfailing aptness, twisted into disappointment 
or disgust. She leant out looking down on me; 
now behind her shoulder I saw the King’s black 
face, half-hidden by the hangings of the window. 
She glanced at the first flower, then at the second, 
held up both her hands for a moment, turned for 
an instant with a coquettish «mile towards the 
swarthy face behind, then handed the first flower 
with a laugh into a hand that was stretched out 
for it, and flung the second down to me. As it 
floated through the air, the wind disengaged its 
loose petals and they drifted away, some reaching 
ground, some caught by gusts and carried away, 
circling, towards the house-tops. The stalk fell by 
me, almost naked, stripped of its bloom. For the 
133 


SIMON DALE 


second flower was faded, and had no sweetness nor 
life left in it. Again her laugh sounded above me, 
and the casement closed. 

I bent and picked up the stalk. Was it her own 
mood she told me in the allegory ? Or was it the 
mood she knew to be in me ? There had been an 
echo of sorrow in the laugh, of pity, kindness and 
regret: and the laugh that she uttered in giving 
the fresh bloom to the King had seemed pure de- 
rision. It was my love, not hers, that found its 
symbol in the dying flower and the stalk robbed of 
its glory. She had said well, it was as she said; I 
picked up what she flung and went on my way, 
hugging my dead. 

In this manner then, as I, Simon the old, have 
shown, was I, Simon the young, brought back to 
my senses. It is all very long ago. 


134 


CHAPTER X 


JE VIENS, TU VIENS, IL VIENT 

It pleased his Grace the Duke of Monmouth so 
to do all things that men should heed his doing 
of them. Even in those days, and notwithstanding 
certain transactions hereinbefore related, I was not 
altogether a fool, and I had not been long about him 
before I detected this propensity and, as I thought, 
the intention underlying it. To set it down boldly 
and plainly, the more the Duke of Monmouth was 
in the eye of the nation, the better the nation ac- 
customed itself to regard him as the king’s son ; the 
more it fell into the habit of counting him the king’s 
son, the less astonished and unwilling would it be 
if fate should place him on the king’s seat. Where 
birth is beyond reproach, dignity may be above dis- 
play; a defect in the first demands an ample exhi- 
bition of the second. It was a small matter, this 
journey to Dover, yet, that he might not go in the 
train of his father and the Duke of York, but make 
men talk of his own going, he chose to start before- 
hand and alone ; lest even thus he should not win 
his meed of notice, he set all the inns and all the 
hamlets on the road a-gossiping, by accomphshing 
the journey from London to Canterbury, in his 
coaciEi-and-six, between sunrise and sunset of a 
single day. To this end it was needful that the 
coach should be light; Lord Carford, now his 
Grace’s inseparable companion, alone sat with him, 
while the rest of us rode on horseback, and the Post 
135 


SIMON DALE 


supplied us with relays where we were in want of 
them. Thus we went down gallantly and in very 
high style, with his Grace much delighted at being 
told that never had king or subject made such pace 
in his travelling since the memory of man began. 
Here was reward enough for all the jolting, the 
flogging of horses, and the pain of yokels pressed 
unwillingly into pushing the coach with their 
shoulders through miry places. 

As I rode, I had many things to think of. My 
woe I held at arm’s length. Of what remained, the 
intimacy between his Grace and my Lord Carford, 
who were there in the coach together, occupied my 
mind most constantly. For by now I had moved 
about in the world a little, and had learnt that 
many counted Carford no better than a secret Papist, 
that he was held in private favour, but not honoured 
in public, by the Duke of York, and that commu- 
nications passed freely between him and Arlington 
by the hand of the secretary’s good servant and my 
good friend Mr. Darrell. Therefore I wondered 
greatly at my lord’s friendship with Monmouth, 
and at his showing an attachment to the Duke 
which, as I had seen at Whitehall, appeared to keep 
in check even the natural jealousy and resentment 
of a lover. But at Court a man went wrong if he 
held a thing unlikely because there was dishonour 
in it. There men were not ashamed to be spies 
themselves, nor to use their wives in the same office. 
There to see no evil was to shut your eyes. I de- 
termined to keep mine open in the interests of my 
new patron, of an older friend, and perhaps of my- 
self also, for Carford’s present civility scarcely 
masked his dislike. 

We reached Canterbury while the light of the 
136 


JE VIENS, TU VIENS, IL VIENT 

long summer evenings till served, and clattered up 
the street in muddy bravery. The town was out 
to see his Grace, and his Grace was delighted to be 
seen by the town. If, of their courtesy, they chose 
to treat him as a Prince, he could scarcely refuse 
their homage, and if he accepted it, it was better to 
accept like one to the manner born than awkwardly ; 
yet I wondered whether my lord made a note in his 
aspiring brain of all that passed, and how soon the 
Duke of York would know that a Prince of Wales, 
coming to Canterbury, could have received no 
greater honour. Nay, and they hailed him as the 
champion of the Church, with hits at the Romish 
faith, which my lord heard with eyes downcast to 
the ground and a rigid smile carved on his face. It 
was all a forecast of what was one day to be ; per- 
haps to the hero of it a suggestion of what some 
day might be. At least he was radiant over it, 
and carried Carford off with him into his apartment 
in the merriest mood. He did not invite me to 
join his party, and I was well content to be left to 
wander for an hour in the quiet close of the great 
cathedral. For let me say that a young man who 
has been lately crossed in love is in a better mood 
for most unworldly meditation, than he is likely to 
be before or after. And if he would not be taken 
too strictly at his word in aU he says to himself 
then, why, who would, pray, and when ? 

It was not my fault, but must be imputed to our 
nature, that in time my stomach cried out angrily 
at my heart, and I returned to the inn, seeking 
supper. His Grace was closeted with my lord, and 
I turned into the public room, desiring no other 
company than what should lie on my plate. But 
my host immediately made me aware that I must 
137 


SIMON DALE 


share my meal and the table with a traveller who 
had recently arrived and ordered a repast. This 
gentleman, concerning whom the host seemed in 
some perplexity, had been informed that the Duke 
of Monmouth was in the house, but had shown 
neither excitement at the news nor surprise, nor, to 
the host’s great scandal, the least desire for a sight 
of his Grace. His men-servants, of whom he had 
two, seemed tongue-tied, so that the host doubted 
if they had more than a few phrases of English, and 
set the whole party down for Frenchmen. 

“Hasn’t the gentleman given his name ? ” I asked. 

“No. He didn’t offer it, and since he flung 
down money enough for his entertainment I had 
no cause to ask it.” 

“ None,” I remarked, “ unless a man may be 
allowed more curiosity than a beast. Stir yourself 
about supper,” and walking in, I saluted, with all 
the courtesy at my command, a young gentleman 
of elegant appearance (so far as I could judge of 
him in traveller’s garb) who sat at the table. His 
greetings equalled mine in politeness, and we fell 
into talk on different matters, he using the English 
language, which he spoke with remarkable fluency, 
although evidently as a foreigner. His manner 
was easy and assured, and I took it for no more 
than an accident that his pistol lay ready to his 
hand, beside a small case or pocket-book of leather 
on the table. He asked me my business, and I 
told him simply that I was going in the Duke’s 
train to Dover. 

“ Ah, to meet Madame the Duchess of Orleans ? ” 
said he. “I heard of her coming before I left 
France. Her visit, sir, will give great pleasure to 
the King her brother.” 


138 


JE VIENS, TU VIENS, IL VIENT 


“ More, if report speaks true, than to the Prince 
her husband,” said I with a laugh. For the talk at 
Court was that the Duke of Orleans hated to let 
his wife out of his sight, while she for her part 
hated to be in it. Both had their reasons, I do 
not doubt. 

“ Perhaps,” he answered with a shrug. “ But 
it’s hard to know the truth in these matters. I am 
myself acquainted with many gentlemen at the 
French Court, and they have much to say, but I 
believe httle of it.” 

Though I might commend his prudence, I was 
not encouraged to pursue the topic, and, seeking a 
change of conversation, I paid him a compliment 
on his mastery of English, hazarding a suggestion 
that he must have passed some time in this coun- 
try. 

"‘Yes,” he replied. “ I was in London for a year 
or more a little while ago.” 

“ Your English puts my French to the blush,” I 
laughed, “ else hospitality would bid me use your 
language.” 

“ You speak French ? ” he asked. “ I confess it 
is easier to me.” 

“ Only a little, and that learnt from merchants, 
not at Court.” For traders of all nations had 
come from time to time to my uncle’s house at 
Norwich. 

“ But I believe you speak very well,” he insisted 
politely. “ Pray let me judge of your skill for my- 
self.” 

I was about to oblige him, when a loud dispute 
arouse outside, French ejaculations mingling with 
English oaths. Then came a scuffle. With a 
hurried apology, the gentleman sprang to his feet 
139 


SIMON DALE 


and rushed out. I went on with my supper, sup- 
posing that his servants had fallen into some alter- 
cation with the landlord and that the parties could 
not make one another understand. My conjecture 
was confirmed when the traveller returned, declar- 
ing that the quarrel arose over the capacity of a 
measure of wine and had been soon arranged. But 
then, with a little cry of vexation, he caught up 
the pocket-book from the table and darted a quick 
glance of suspicion at me. I was more amazed 
than angry, and my smile caused him confusion, 
for he saw that I had detected his fear. Thinking 
him punished enough for his rudeness (although it 
might find some excuse in the indifferent honesty 
of many who frequented the roads in the guise of 
travellers) I relieved him by resuming our conver- 
sation, saying with a smile, 

“ In truth my French is a school-boy’s French. 
I can teU the parts of the verb J'aime^ tu aimes, il 
aime; it goes so far, sir, and no farther.” 

“ Not far in speech, though often far enough in 
act,” he laughed. 

‘‘ Truly,” said I with a sigh. 

“Yet I swear you do yourself injustice. Is there 
no more ? ” 

“ A little more of the same sort, sir.” And, cast- 
ing about for another phrase with which to hu- 
mour him, I took the first that came to my 
tongue; leaning my arms on the table (for I had 
finished eating), I said with a smile, “Well, what 
say you to this ? This is something to know, isn’t 
it ? Je mens, tu mens, il vienV' 

As I live, he sprang to his feet with a cry of 
alarm ! His hand darted to his breast where he 
had stowed the pocket-book ; he tore it out and 
140 


JE VIENS, TU VIENS, IL VIENT 


examined the fastening with furious haste and anx- 
iety. I sat struck still with wonder ; the man 
seemed mad. He looked at me now, and his 
glance was full of deepest suspicion. He opened 
his mouth to speak, but words seemed to fail him ; 
he held out the leathern case towards me. Strange 
as was the question that his gesture put I could 
not doubt it. 

“ I haven’t touched the book,” said I. ‘‘ Indeed, 
sir, only your visible agitation can gain you pardon 
for the suggestion.” 

Then how — how ? ” he muttered. 

“ You pass my understanding, sir,” said I in 
petulant amusement. “ I say in jest ‘I come, 
thou comest, he comes,’ and the words act on you 
like abracadabra and the blackest of magic. You 
don’t, I presume, carry a hornbook of French in your 
case ; and if you do, I haven’t robbed you of it.” 

He was turning the little case over and over in 
his hands, again examining the clasps of it. His 
next freak was to snatch his pistol and look to the 
priming. I burst out laughing, for his antics 
seemed absurd. My laughter cooled him and he 
made a great effort to regain his composure. But 
I began to rally him. 

“Mayn’t a man know how to say in French 
‘ He comes ’ without stealing the knowledge from 
your book, sir ? ” I asked. “ You do us wrong if 
you think that so much is known to nobody in 
England.” 

He glared at me like a man who hears a jest, 
but cannot tell whether it conceals earnest or not. 

“Open the case, sir,” I continued in raillery. 
“ Make sure all is there. Come, you owe me that 
much.” 


10 


141 


SIMON DALE 


To my amazement he obeyed me. He opened 
the case and searched through certain papers which 
it contained ; at the end he sighed as though in re- 
lief, yet his suspicious air did not leave him. 

“Now perhaps, sir,” said I, squaring my elbows, 
“ you’ll explain the comedy.” 

That he could not do. The very impossibility 
of any explanation showed that I had, in the 
most unexpected fashion, stumbled on some se- 
cret with him even as I had before with Darrell. 
Was his secret Darrell’s or his own, the same or 
another? What it was I could not tell, but for 
certain there it was. He had no resource but to 
carry the matter with a high hand, and to this 
he betook himself with the readiness of his na- 
tion. 

“ You ask an explanation, sir ? ” he cried. 
“ There’s nothing to explain, and if there were, I 
give explanations when I please, and not to every 
fellow who chooses to ask them of me.” 

“ I come, thou comest, he comes, — ’tis a very 
mysterious phrase,” said I. “I can’t tell what it 
means. And if you won’t tell me, sir, I must ask 
others.” 

“ You’ll be wiser to ask nobody,” he said menac- 
ingly. 

“Nay, I shall be no wiser if I ask nobody,” I 
retorted with a smile. 

“Yet you’ll tell nobody of what has passed,” 
said he, advancing towards me with the plain in- 
tention of imposing his will on me by fear, since 
persuasion failed. I rose to my feet and answered, 
mimicking his insolent words, 

“ I give promises, sir, when I please, and not to 
every fellow who chooses to ask them of me. ’ ’ 

142 


JE VIENS, TU VIENS, IL VIENT 


‘‘You shall give me your promise before you 
leave this room,” he cried. 

His voice had been rising in passion and was 
now loud and fierce. Whether the sound of it 
had reached the room above, or whether the Duke 
and Carford had grown weary of one another, I do 
not know, but as the French gentleman uttered 
this last threat Carford opened the door, stood 
aside to let his Grace enter, and followed himself 
As they came in, we were in a most hostile atti- 
tude; for the Frenchman’s pistol was in his hand, 
and my hand had fiown to the hilt of my sword. 
The Duke looked at us in astonishment. 

“ Why, what’s this, gentlemen ? ” he said. 
“Mr. Dale, are you at variance with this gentle- 
man ? ” But before I had time to answer him, he 
had stepped forward and seen the Frenchman’s 
face. “ Why, here is M. de Fontelles ! ” he cried 
in surprise. “I am very pleased to see you, sir, 
again in England. Carford, here is M. de Fon- 
telles. You were acquainted with him when he 
was in the suite of the French Ambassador ? You 
carry a message, sir ? ” 

I listened keenly to all that the Duke’s words 
told me. M. de Fontelles bowed low, but his 
confusion was in no way abated, and he made no 
answer to his Grace’s question. The Duke turned 
to me, saying with some haughtiness, 

“ This gentleman is a friend of mine, Mr. Dale. 
Pray why was your hand on your sword ? ” 

“ Because the gentleman’s pistol was in his hand, 
sir.” 

“You appear always to be very ready for a 
quarrel, Mr. Dale,” said the Duke, with a glance 
at Carford. “ Pray, what’s the dispute ? ” 

143 


SIMON DALE 


I’ll tell your Grace the whole matter,” said I 
readily enough, for I had nothing to blame myself 
with. 

“No, I won’t have it told,” cried M. de Fon- 
telles. 

“It’s my pleasure to hear it,” said the Duke 
coldly. 

“Well, sir, it was thus,” said I with a candid 
air. “ I protested to this gentleman that my 
French was sadly to seek; he was polite enough 
to assure me that I spoke it well. Upon this I 
owned to some small knowledge, and for an ex- 
ample I said to him, ‘J'aime, tu aimes, il aime" 
He received the remark, sir, with the utmost 
amiability.” 

“He could do no less,” said the Duke with a 
smile. 

‘ ‘ But he would have it that this didn’t exhaust 
my treasure of learning. Therefore, after leaving 
me for a moment to set straight a difference that 
had arisen between his servants and our host, he 
returned, put away a leathern case that he had left 
on the table (concerning which indeed he seemed 
more uneasy than would be counted courteous 
here in England, seeing that I had been all the 
while alone in the room with it), and allowed me 
to resume my exhibition of French-speaking. To 
humour him and to pass away the hour during 
which I was deprived of the pleasure of attending 
your Grace ” 

“Yes, yes, Mr. Dale. Don’t delay in order to 
compliment me,” said the Duke, smiling still. 

“ I leant across the table, sir, and I made him a 
speech that sent him, to all seeming, half-way out 
of his senses; for he sprang up, seized his case, 
144 


JE VIENS, TU VIENS, IL VIENT 


looked at the fastenings, saw to the priming of his 
pistol, and finally presumed to exact from me a 
promise that I would consult nobody as to the 
perplexity into which this strange behaviour of his 
had flung me. To that I demurred, and hence the 
quarrel with which I regret most humbly that your 
Grace should have been troubled.” 

“ I’m obliged to you, Mr. Dale. But what was 
this wonder-working phrase ? ’ ’ 

“Why, sir, just the first that came into my 
head. I said to the gentleman — to M. de Fon- 
telles, as I understand him to be called — I said to 
him softly and gently — Je viens, tu viens ” 

The Duke seized me by the arm, with a sudden 
air of excitement. Carford stepped forward and 
stood beside him. 

Je viens, tu viens, . . . Yes ! And any 

more ? ” cried the Duke. 

“Yes, your Grace,” I answered, again amazed. 
“ I completed what grammarians call the Singular 
Number by adding II vient ; whereupon — but I 
have told you.” 

“// vient cried the Duke and Carford all in a 
breath. 

“ II vient, ” I repeated, thinking now that all the 
three had run mad. Carford screened his mouth 
with his hand and whispered in the Duke’s ear. 
The Duke nodded and made some answer. Both 
seemed infinitely stirred and interested. M. de 
Fontelles had stood in sullen silence by the table 
while I told the story of our quarrel ; now his eyes 
were fixed intently on the Duke’s face. 

“ But why,” said I, “ that simple phrase worked 
such strange agitation in the gentleman, your 
Grace’s wisdom may discover. I am at a loss.” 

145 


SIMON DALE 

Still Carford whispered, and presently the Duke 
said, 

“Come, gentlemen, you’ve fallen into a foolish 
quarrel where no quarrel need have come. Pray 
be friends again.” 

M. de Fontelles drew himself up stiffly. 

I asked a promise of that gentleman, and he 
refused it me,” he said. 

“ And I asked an explanation of that gentleman, 
and he refused it me,” said I, just as stiffly. 

“ W ell then, Mr. Dale shall give his promise to 
me. Will that be agreeable to you, Mr. Dale ? ” 

“ I’m at your Grace’s commands in all things,” I 
answered, bowing. 

“And you’ll tell nobody of M. de Fontelles’ 
agitation ? ” 

“If your Grace pleases. To say the truth, I 
don’t care a fig for his fierceness. But the ex- 
planation, sir ? ” 

“ Why, to make all level,” answered the Duke, 
smiling and fixing his gaze upon the Frenchman, 
“ M. de Fontelles will give his explanation to me.” 

“ I cry agreed, your Grace ! ” said I. “ Come, 
let him give it.” 

“To me, Mr. Dale, not to you,” smiled the 
Duke. 

“ What, am I not to hear why he was so fierce 
with me ? ” 

“You don’t care a fig for his fierceness, Mr. 
Dale,” he reminded me, laughing. 

I saw that I was caught, and had the sense to 
show no annoyance, although I must confess to a 
very lively curiosity. 

“Your Grace wishes to be alone with M. de 
Fontelles ? ” I asked readily and deferentially. 

146 


JE VIENS, TU VIENS, IL VIENT 

“For a little while, if you’ll give us leave,” he 
answered, but he added to Carford, “No, you 
needn’t move, Carford.” 

So I made my bow and left them, not well 
pleased, for my brain was on the rack to discover 
what might be the secret which hung on that 
mysterious phrase, and which I had so nearly sur- 
prised from M. de Fontelles. 

“ The gist of it,” said I to myself as I turned to 
the kitchen, “ lies, if I am not mistaken, in the third 
member. For when I had said Je viens, tu viens, 
the Duke interrupted me, crying, ‘ Any more ? ’ ” 

I had made for the kitchen since there was no 
other room open to me, and I found it tenanted 
by the French servants of M. de Fontelles. 
Although peace had been made between them and 
the host, they sat in deep dejection; the reason 
was plain to see in two empty glasses and an empty 
bottle that stood on a table between them. Kind- 
liness, aided, it may be, by another motive, made 
me resolve to cure their despondency. 

“ Gentlemen, ” said I in French, going up to 
them, "‘you do not drink ! ” 

They rose, bowing, but I took a third chair be- 
tween them and motioned them to be seated. 

“We have not the wherewithal, sir,” said one 
with a wistful smile. 

“ The thing is mended as soon as told,” I cried, 
and, calling the host, I bade him bring three bot- 
tles. “A man is more at home with his own bot- 
tle,” said I. 

With the wine came new gaiety, and with gaiety 
a flow of speech. M. de Fontelles would have ad- 
mired the fluency with which I discoursed with his 
servants, they telling me of travelling in their coun- 
147 


SIMON DALE 

try, I describing the incidents of the road in Eng- 
land. 

“There are rogues enough on the way in both 
countries, I’ll warrant,” I laughed. “ But perhaps 
you carry nothing of great value and laugh at rob- 
bers ? ” 

“ Our spoil would make a robber a poor meal, sir; 
but our master is in a different plight.” 

“Ah ! He carries treasure ? ” 

“Not in money, sir,” answered one. The other 
nudged him, as though to bid him hold his tongue. 

“ Come, fill your glasses,” I cried, and they obeyed 
very readily. 

“Well, men have met their death between here 
and London often enough before now,” I pursued 
meditatively, twisting my glass of wine in my fin- 
gers. “But with you for his guard, M. de Fon- 
telles should be safe enough.” 

“ We’re charged to guard him with our lives and 
not leave him till he comes to the Ambassador’s 
house.” 

“ But these rogues hunt sometimes in threes and 
fours,” said I. “You might well lose one of your 
number.” 

“ We’re cheap, sir,” laughed one. “ The King of 
France has many of us.” 

“ But if your master were the one ? ” 

“ Even then provision is made.” 

“ What ? Could you carry his message — for if 
his treasure isn’t money, I must set it down as tid- 
ings — to the Ambassador ? ” 

They looked at one another rather doubtfully. 
But I was not behindhand in filling their glasses. 

“ Still we should go on, even without Monsieur 
said one. 


148 


JE VIENS, TU VIENS, IL VIENT 

“ But to what end ? ” I cried in feigned derision. 

“ Why, we too have a message.” 

‘‘ Indeed. Can you carry the King’s message ? ” 

“None better, sir,” said the shorter of the pair, 
with a shrewd twinkle in his eye. ‘ ‘ For we don’t 
understand it.” 

“ It is difficult then ? ” 

“Nay, it’s so simple as to see without mean- 
ing.” 

“What, so simple — but your bottle is empty! 
Come, another ? ” 

“ Indeed no, Monsieur'' 

“ A last bottle between us ! I’ll not be denied.” 
And I called for a fourth. 

When we were well started on the drinking of it, 
I asked carelessly, 

“ And what’s your message ? ” 

But neither the wine nor the negligence of my 
question had quite lulled their caution to sleep. 
They shook their heads, and laughed, saying, 

“ We’re forbidden to tell that.” 

“ Yet, if it be so simple as to have no meaning, 
what harm in telling it ? ” 

“But orders are orders, and we’re soldiers,” an- 
swered the shrewd short fellow. 

The idea had been working in my brain, growing 
stronger and stronger till it reached conviction. I 
determined now to put it to the proof. 

“ Tut,” said I. “ You make a pretty secret of it, 
and I don’t blame you. But I can guess your rid- 
dle. Listen. If anything befell M. de Fontelles, 
which God forbid ” 

“ Amen, amen,” they murmured with a chuckle. 

“ You two, or if fate left but one, that one, would 
ride on at his best speed to London, and there seek 
149 


SIMON DALE 

out the Ambassador of the Most Christian King. 
Isn’t it so ? ” 

“ So much, sir, you might guess from what we’ve 
said.” 

“ Ay, ay, I claim no powers of divination. Yet 
I’ll guess a little more. On being admitted to the 
presence of the Ambassador, he would relate the sad 
fate of his master, and would then deliver his mes- 
sage, and that message would be ” I drew my 

chair forward between them and laid a finger on the 
arm of each. “ That message, ” said I, “ would be 
just like this — and indeed it’s very simple, and seems 
devoid of all rational meaning: Je viens'' They 
started. viensr They gaped. “// vient^" 

I cried triumphantly, and their chairs shot back as 
they sprang to their feet, astonishment vivid on 
their faces. For me, I sat there laughing in sheer 
delight at the excellence of my aim and the shrewd- 
ness of my penetration. 

What they would have said, I do not know. The 
door was flung open and M. de Fontelles appeared. 
He bowed coldly to me and vented on his servants 
the anger from which he was not yet free, calling 
them drunken knaves and bidding them see to 
their horses and lie down in the stable, for he must 
be on his way by daybreak. With covert glances 
at me which implored silence and received the an- 
swer of a reassuring nod, they slunk away. I bowed 
to M. de Fontenelles with a merry smile ; I could 
not conceal my amusement and did not care how 
it might puzzle him. I strode out of the kitchen 
and made my way up the stairs. I had to pass the 
Duke’s apartment. The light still burned there, 
and he and Carford were sitting at the table. I put 
my head in. 


150 


JE VIENS, TU VIENS, IL VIENT 


“ If your Grace has no need of me, I’ll seek my 
bed,” said I, mustering a yawn. 

“No need at all,” he answered. “ Good-night to 
you, Simon.” But then he added, “ You’ll keep 
your promise to me ? ” 

“ Your Grace may depend on me.” 

“ Though in truth I may tell you that the whole 
affair is nothing ; it’s no more than a matter of gal- 
lantry, eh, Carford ? ” 

“No more,” said my Lord Carford. 

“ But such matters are best not talked of.” 

I bowed as he dismissed me, and pursued my way 
to my room. A matter of gallantry might, it seemed, 
be of moment to the messengers of the King of 
France. I did not know what to make of the mys- 
tery. But I knew there was a mystery. 

“ And it turns,” said I to myself, “ on those little 
words ‘ II vientJ Who is he ? Where comes he ? 
And to what end? Perhaps I shall learn these 
things at Dover.” 

There is this to be said. A man’s heart aches less 
when his head is full. On that night I did not sigh 
above half my usual measure. 


151 


CHAPTER XI 


THE GENTLEMAN FROM CALAIS 

Good fortune and bad had combined to make me 
somewhat more of a figure in the eyes of the Court 
than was warranted by my abihties or my station. 
The friend of Mistress Gwyn and the favourite of 
the Duke of Monmouth (for this latter title his 
Grace’s signal kindness soon extorted from the 
amused and the envious) was a man whom great 
folk recognised, and to whom small folk paid civility. 
Lord Carford had become again all smiles and cour- 
tesy; Darrell, who arrived in the Secretary’s train, 
compensated in cordiality for what he lacked in con- 
fidence ; my Lord Arlin^on himself presented me in 
most flattering terms to the French King’s envoy, 
M. Colbert de Croissy, who, in his turn, greeted me 
with a warmth and regarded me with a curiosity that 
produced equal gratification arid bewilderment in my 
mind. Finally, the Duke of Monmouth insisted on 
having me with him in the Castle, though the greater 
part of the gentlemen attached to the Royal and 
noble persons were sent to lodge in the town for 
want of accommodation within the walls. My 
private distress, from which I recovered but slowly, 
or, to speak more properly, suppressed with diffi- 
culty, served to prevent me from becoming puffed 
up with the conceit which this success might well 
have inspired. 

The first part of Betty Nasroth’s prophecy now 
stood fulfilled, ay, as I trusted, utterly finished and 
152 


THE GENTLEMAN FROM CALAIS 


accomplished ; the rest tarried. I had guessed that 
there was a secret, what it was remained unknown 
to me and, as I soon suspected, to people more im- 
portant. The interval before the arrival of the 
Duchess of Orleans was occupied in many councils 
and conferences ; at most of them the Duke of Mon- 
mouth was present, and he told me no more than all 
the Court conjectured when he said that Madame 
d’Orleans came with a project for a new French 
Alliance and a fresh war with the Dutch. But 
there were conferences at which he was not present, 
nor the Duke of Buckingham, but only the King, 
his brother (so soon as his Royal Highness joined us 
from London), the French Envoy, and Chfford and 
Arlington. Of what passed at these my master 
knew nothing, though he feigned knowledge ; he 
would be restless when I, having used my eyes, 
told him that the King had been with M. Colbert 
de Croissy for two hours, and that the Duke of 
York had walked on the wall above an hour in 
earnest conversation with the Treasurer. He felt 
himself ignored, and poured out his indignation 
unreservedly to Carford. Carford would frown 
and throw his eyes towards me, as though to ask 
if I were to hear these things, but the Duke re- 
fused his suggestion. Nay, once he said in jest : 

‘‘ What I say is as safe with him as with you, my 
lord, or safer. ” 

I wondered to see Carford indignant. 

“ Why do you say safer, sir ? ” he asked haughtily, 
while the colour on his cheeks was heightened. “Is 
any man’s honour more to be trusted than mine ? ” 

“ Ah, man, I meant nothing against your honour; 
but Simon here has a discretion that heaven does 
not give to everyone.” 


153 


SIMON DALE 


Now, when I see a man so sensitive to suspicion 
as to find it in every careless word, I am set think- 
ing whether he may not have some cause to fear 
suspicion. Honesty expects no accusation. Car- 
ford’s readiness to repel a charge not brought 
caught my notice, and made me ponder more on 
certain other conferences to which also his Grace 
my patron was a stranger. More than once had I 
found Arlington and Carford together, with M. 
Colbert in their company, and on the last occasion 
of such an encounter Carford had requested me 
not to mention his whereabouts to the Duke, ad- 
vancing the trivial pretext that he should have 
been engaged on his Grace’s business. His Grace 
was not our schoolmaster. But I was deceived, 
most amiably deceived, and held my tongue as he 
prayed. Yet I watched him close, and soon, had a 
man told me that the Duke of York thought it well 
to maintain a friend of his own in his nephew’s con- 
fidence, I would have hazarded that friend’s name 
without fear of mistake. 

So far the affair was little to me, but when Mis- 
tress Barbara came from London the day before 
Madame was to arrive, hardly an hour passed be- 
fore I perceived that she also, although she knew it 
not, had her part to play. I cannot tell what re- 
ward they offered Carford for successful service ; if 
a man who sells himself at a high price be in any 
way less a villain than he who takes a penny, I trust 
that the price was high ; for in pursuance of the 
effort to obtain Monmouth’s confidence and an 
ascendency over him, Carford made use of the lady 
whom he had courted, and, as I believed, still 
courted, for his own wife. He threw her in Mon- 
mouth’s way by tricks too subtle for her to detect, 
154 


THE GENTLEMAN FROM CALAIS 


but plain to an attentive observer. I knew from 
her father that lately he had again begged her 
hand, and that she had listened with more show of 
favour. Yet he was the Duke’s very humble ser- 
vant in all the plans which that headstrong young 
man now laid against the lady’s peace and honour. 
Is there need to state the scheme more plainly ? 
In those days a man might rise high and learn 
great secrets, if he knew when to shut his eyes and 
how to knock loud before he entered the room. 

I should have warned her. It is true ; but the 
mischief lay in the fact that by no means could I 
induce her to exchange a word with me. She was 
harder by far to me than she had shown herself in 
London. Perhaps she had heard how I had gone 
to Chelsea; but whether for good reason or bad, 
my crime now seemed beyond pardon. Stay ; per- 
haps my condition was below her notice ; or sin and 
condition so worked together that she would have 
nothing of me, and I could do nothing but look on 
with outward calm and hidden sourness while the 
Duke plied her with flatteries that soon grew to 
passionate avowals, and Carford paid deferential 
suit when his superior was not in the way. She 
triumphed in her success as girls will, blind to its 
perils as girls are ; and Monmouth made no secret 
of his hopes of success, as he sat between Carford’s 
stolid face and my downcast eyes. 

“ She’s the loveliest creature in the world,” he 
would cry. “ Come, drink a toast to her ! ” I 
drank silently, while Carford led him on to unre- 
strained boasts and artfully fanned his passion. 

At last — it was the evening of the day before 
Madame was to come — I met her where she could 
not avoid me, by the Constable’s Tower, and alone. 

155 


SIMON DALE 


I took my courage in my hands and faced her, 
warning her of her peril in what delicate words I 
could find. Alas, I made nothing of it. A scorn- 
ful jest at me and my righteousness (of which, 
said she, all London had been talking a little while 
back) was the first shot from her battery. The 
mention of the Duke’s name brought a blush and 
a mischievous smile, as she answered : 

“ Shouldn’t I make a fine Duchess, Mr. Dale ? ” 

“Ay, if he made you one,” said I with gloomy 
bluntness. 

“ You insult me, sir,” she cried, and the flush on 
her face deepened. 

“ Then I do in few words what his Grace does in 
many,” I retorted. 

I went about it like a dolt, I do not doubt. For 
she flew out at me, demanding in what esteem I 
held her, and in what her birth fell short of Anne 
Hyde’s — “Avho is now Duchess of York, and in 
whose service I have the honour to be.” 

“ Is that your pattern ? ” I asked. “ Will the 
King interpose for you as he did for the daughter 
of Lord Clarendon ? ” 

She tossed he head, answering : 

“ Perhaps so much interference will not be 
needed.” 

“ And does my Lord Carford share these plans 
of yours ? ” I asked with a sneer. 

The question touched her ; she flushed again, but 
gave way not an inch. 

“Lord Carford has done me much honour, as 
you know,” said she, “ but he wouldn’t stand in 
my way here.” 

“ Indeed he doesn’t ! ” I cried. “ Nor in his 
Grace’s 1 ” 


166 


THE GENTLEMAN FROM CALAIS 


“ Have you done, sir ? ” said she most scornfully. 

“I have done, madame,” said I, and on she 
swept. 

“ Yet you shall come to no harm,” I added to 
myself as I watched her proud free steps carry her 
away. She also, it seemed, had her dream ; I 
hoped that no more than hurt pride and a heart 
for the moment sore would come of it. Yet if the 
flatteries of princes pleased, she was to be better 
pleased soon, and the Duke of Monmouth seem 
scarcely higher to her than Simon Dale. 

Then came Madame in the morning from Dun- 
kirk, escorted by the Vice-Admiral, and met above 
a mile from the coast by the King in his barge ; 
the Duke of York, Prince Rupert, and my Duke 
(on whom I attended) accompanying His Majesty. 
Madame seemed scarcely as beautiful as I had 
heard, although of a very high air and most admir- 
able carriage and address; and my eyes, prone, I 
must confess, to seek the fairest face, wandered 
from hers to a lady who stood near, gifted with a 
delicate and alluring, yet childish, beauty, who 
gazed on the gay scene with innocent interest and 
a fresh enjoyment. Madame, having embraced 
her kinsmen, presented the lady to His Majesty by 
the name of Mademoiselle Louise Renee de Per- 
rencourt de Querouaille (the name was much 
shortened by our common folk in later days), and 
the King kissed her hand, saying that he was re- 
joiced to see her — as indeed he seemed to be, if a 
man might judge by the time he spent in looking 
at her, and the carelessness with which he greeted 
the others in attendance on Madame. 

“ And these are all who come with you, sister ? ” 
he asked. 

11 


167 


SIMON DALE 


She answered him clearly, almost loudly : 

“ Except a gentleman who is to join me from 
Calais to-morrow, with messages from the King.” 

I heard no more, being forced to move away 
and leave the royal group alone. I had closely 
examined all who came. For in the presence of 
Madame I read Je viens, in our King’s, Tu viens ; 
but I saw none whose coming would make the 
tidings II vient worthy of a special messenger to 
London. But there was a gentleman to arrive 
from Calais. I had enough curiosity to ask M. le 
Comte d’Albon, who (with his wife) accompanied 
Madame and stood by me on deck as we returned 
to land, who this gentleman might be. 

“He is called M. de Perrencourt,” the Count 
replied, “ and is related remotely to the lady whom 
you saw with Madame.” 

I was disappointed, or rather checked. Was 
M. de Perrencourt so important that they wrote 
II vient about him and sent the tidings to Lon- 
don? 

After some time, when we were already coming 
near to shore, I observed Madame leave the King 
and go walking to and fro on the deck in company 
with Monmouth. He was very merry and she 
was very gracious; I amused myself with watch- 
ing so handsome and well-matched a pair. I did 
not wonder that my Duke was in a mighty good 
temper, for, even had she been no Princess, her 
company was such as would please a man’s pride 
and content his fancy. So I leant against the 
mast, thinking it a pity that they troubled their 
pretty heads with Dutch wars and the like tire- 
some matters, and were not content to ornament 
the world, leaving its rule to others. But pres- 
158 


THE GENTLEMAN FROM CALAIS 


ently I saw the Duke point towards me, and Ma- 
dame s glance follow his finger; he talked to her 
again and both laughed. Then, just as we came 
by the landing-stage, she laid her hand on his arm, 
as though in command. He laughed again, shrug- 
ging his shoulders, then raised his hand and beck- 
oned to me. Now I, while watching, had been 
most diligent in seeming not to watch, and it needed 
a second and unmistakable signal from his Grace 
before I hastened up, hat in hand. Madame was 
laughing, and, as I came, I heard her say, “ Yes, 
but I will speak to him.” The Duke, with an- 
other shrug, bade me come near, and in due form 
presented me. She gave me her hand to kiss, say- 
ing with a smile that showed her white teeth, 

“ Sir, I asked to be shown the most honest man 
in Dover, and my cousin Monmouth has brought 
you to me.” 

I perceived that Monmouth, seeking how to en- 
tertain her, had not scrupled to press me into his 
service. This I could not resent, and since I saw 
that she was not too dull to be answered in the 
spirit of her address, I made her a low bow and 
said : 

“ His Grace, Madame, conceived you to mean in 
Dover Castle. The townsmen, I believe, are very 
honest.” 

“ And you, though the most honest in the Cas- 
tle, are not very honest ? ” 

‘‘ I take what I find, Madame,” I answered. 

“ So M. Colbert tells me,” she said with a swift 
glance at me. “Yet it’s not always worth taking.” 

“ I keep it, in case it should become so, ” I an- 
swered, for I guessed that Colbert had told her of 
my encounter with M. de Fontelles ; if that were 
159 


SIMON DALE 


so, she might have a curiosity to see me without the 
added inducement of Monmouth’s malicious stories. 

“ Not if it be a secret? No man keeps that,” 
she cried. 

“ He may, if he be not in love, Madame.” 

“ But are you that monster, Mr. Dale ? ” said she. 
‘‘ Shame on the ladies of my native land ! Yet I’m 
glad! For, if you’re not in love, you’ll be more 
ready to serve me, perhaps.” 

‘‘ Mr. Dale, Madame, is not incapable of falling 
in love,” said Monmouth with a bow. “ Don’t try 
his virtue too much.” 

He shall fall in love then with Louise,” she cried. 

Monmouth made a grimace, and the Duchess 
suddenly fell to laughing, as she glanced over her 
shoulder towards the King, who was busily en- 
gaged in conversation with Mile, de Querouaille. 

“ Indeed, no ! ” I exclaimed with a fervour that I 
had not intended. No more of that part of Betty 
Nasroth’s prophecy for me, and the King’s atten- 
tions were already particular. ‘‘ But if I can serve 
your Royal Highness, I am body and soul at your 
service.” 

‘‘ Body and soul? ” said she. “ Ah, you mean 
saving — what is it ? Haven’t you reservations ? ” 

“ His Grace has spared me nothing,” said I, with 
a reproachful glance at Monmouth. 

‘‘ The more told of you the better you’re Hked, 
Simon,” said he kindly. “ See, Madame, we’re at 
the landing, and there’s a crowd of loyal folk to 
greet you.” 

“ I know the loyalty of the English well,” said 
she in a low voice and with a curling lip. “ They 
have their reservations like Mr. Dale. Ah, you’re 
speaking, Mr. Dale ? ” 


160 


THE GENTLEMAN FROM CALAIS 

“ To myself, Madame,” I answered, bowing pro- 
foundly. She laughed, shaking her head at me, 
and passed on. I was glad she did not press me, 
for what I had said was, ‘‘ Thank God,” and I 
might likely enough have told a lie if she had put 
me to the question. 

That night the King entertained his sister at a 
great banquet in the hall of the Castle, where there 
was much drinking of toasts, and much talk of the 
love that the King of France had for the King of 
England, and our King for the other King, and we 
for the French (whereas we hated them) and they 
for us (although they wasted no kindness on us); 
but at least every man got as much wine as he 
wanted, and many of them more than they had fair 
occasion for; and among these last 1 must count 
the Duke of Monmouth. For after the rest had 
risen from table he sat there still, calling Carford to 
join him, and even bidding me sit down by his side. 
Carford seemed in no haste to get him away, al- 
though very anxious to relieve me of my post behind 
his chair, but at last, by dint of upbraiding them 
both, I prevailed on Carford to offer his arm and 
the Duke to accept it, while I supported him on 
the other side. Thus we set out for his Grace s 
quarters, making a spectacle sad enough to a moral- 
ist, but too ordinary at Court for any remark to be 
excited by it. Carford insisted that he could take 
the Duke alone; I would not budge. My lord 
grew offensive, hinting of busy-bodies who came 
between the Duke and his friends. Pushed hard, 
I asked the Duke himself if I should leave him. 
He bade me stay, swearing that I was an honest 
fellow and no Papist, as were some he knew. I 
saw Carford start ; his Grace saw nothing save the 
161 


SIMON DALE 


entrance of his chamber, and that not over-plainly. 
But we got him in, and into a seat, and the door 
shut. Then he called for more wine, and Carford 
at once brought it to him and pledged him once 
and again, Monmouth drinking deep. 

‘‘He’s had more than he can carry already,” I 
whispered. Carford turned straight to the Duke, 
crying, “Mr. Dale here says that your Grace is 
drunk.” He made nothing by the move, for the 
Duke answered good humouredly, 

“ Truly I am drunk, but in the legs only, my 
good Simon. My head is clear, clear as daylight, or 

the ” He looked round cunningly, and caught 

each of us by the arm. “ We’re good Protestants 
here ? ” he asked with a would-be shrewd, wine- 
muddled glance. 

“Sound and true, your Grace,” said Carford. 
Then he whispered to me, “ Indeed I think he’s ill. 
Pray run for the King’s physician, Mr. Dale.” 

“ Nay, he’d do well enough if he were alone with 
me. If you desire the physician’s presence, my 
lord, he’s easy to find.” 

I cared not a jot for Carford ’s anger, and was 
determined not to give ground. But we had no 
more time for quarrelling. 

“I am as loyal — as loyal to my father as any 
man in the kingdom,” said the Duke in maudhn 
confidence. “ But you know what’s afoot ? ” 

“A new war with the Dutch, I’m told, sir,” said I. 

“A fig for the Dutch! Hush, we must speak 
low, there may be Papists about. There are some 
in the Castle, Carford. Hush, hush ! Some say 
my uncle’s one, some say the Secretary’s one. 
Gentlemen, I — I say no more. Traitors have said 
that my father is ” 


162 


THE GENTLEMAN FROM CALAIS 


Carford interrupted him. 

“ Don’t trouble your mind with these slanders, 
sir,” he urged. 

“I won’t believe it. I’ll stand by my father. 
But if the Duke of York — But I’ll say no more.” 
His head fell on his breast. But in a moment he 
sprang to his feet, crying, “ But I’m a Protestant. 
Yes, and I’m the King’s son.” He caught Carford 
by the arm, whispering, “Not a word of it. I’m 
ready. We know what’s afoot. We’re loyal to 
the King; we must save him. But if we can’t — 
if we can’t, isn’t there one who — who — ? ” 

He lost his tongue for an instant. We stood 
looking at him, till he spoke again. “ One who 
would be a Protestant King ? ” 

He spoke the last words loud and fiercely; it 
was the final effort, and he sank back in his chair in 
a stupor. Carford gave a hasty glance at his face. 

“I’ll go for the physician,” he cried. “His 
Grace may need blood-letting.” 

I stepped between him and the door as he ad- 
vanced. 

“ His Grace needs nothing,” said I, “ except the 
discretion of his friends. We’ve heard foolish words 
that we should not have heard to-night, my lord.” 

“ I am sure they’re safe with you,” he answered. 

“ And with you?” I retorted quickly. 

He drew himself up haughtily. 

“ Stand aside, sir, and let me pass.” 

“ Where are you going ? ” 

“To fetch the physician. I’ll answer none of 
your questions.” 

I could not stop him without an open brawl, and 
that I would not encounter, for it could lead only 
to my own expulsion. Yet I was sure that he 
163 


SIMON DALE 


would go straight to Arlington, and that every 
word the Duke had spoken would be carried to 
York, and perhaps to the King, before next morn- 
ing. The King would be informed, if it were 
thought possible to prejudice him against his son ; 
York, at least, would be warned of the mad scheme 
which was in the young Duke’s head. I drew 
aside and with a surly bow let Carford pass. He 
returned my salutation with an equal economy of 
politeness, and left me alone with Monmouth, who 
had now sunk into a heavy and uneasy sleep. I 
roused him and got him to bed, glad to think that 
his unwary tongue would be silent for a few hours 
at least. Yet what he had said brought me nearer 
to the secret and the mystery. There was indeed 
more afoot than the war with the Dutch. There 
was, if I mistook not, a matter that touched the 
religion of the King. Monmouth, whose wits were 
sharp enough, had gained scent of it ; the wits went 
out as the wine went in, and he blurted out what 
he suspected, robbing his knowledge of all value by 
betraying its possession. Our best knowledge lies 
in what we are not known to know. 

I repaired, thoughtful and disturbed, to my own 
small chamber, next the Duke’s ; but the night was 
fine and I had no mind for sleep. I turned back 
again and made my way on to the wall, where it 
faces towards the sea. The wind was blowing fresh 
and the sound of the waves filled my ears. No 
doubt the same sound hid the noise of my feet, for 
when I came to the wall, I passed unheeded by 
three persons who stood in a group together. I 
knew all and made haste to pass by ; the man was 
the King himself, the lady on his right was Mistress 
Barbara; in the third I recognised Madame’s lady, 
164 


THE GENTLEMAN FROM CALAIS 


Louise de Qu^rouaille. 1 proceeded some distance 
farther till I was at the end of the wall nearest the 
sea. There I took my stand, looking not at the 
sea but covertly at the little group. Presently two 
of them moved away ; the third curtseyed low but 
did not accompany them. When they were gone, 
she turned and leant on the parapet of the wall with 
clasped hands. Drawn by some impulse, I moved 
towards her. She was unconscious of my approach 
until I came quite near to her ; then she turned on 
me a face stained with tears and pale with agitation 
and alarm. I stood before her, speechless, and she 
found no words in which to address me. I was too 
proud to force my company on her, and made as 
though to pass with a bow; but her face ar- 
rested me. 

“ What ails you. Mistress Barbara ? ” I cried im- 
petuously. She smoothed her face to composure as 
she answered me : 

“Nothing, sir.’’ Then she added carelessly, 
“Unless it be that sometimes the King’s conversa- 
tion is too free for my liking.” 

“ When you want me, I’m here,” I said, answer- 
ing not her words but the frightened look that there 
was in her eyes. 

For an instant I seemed to see in her an impulse 
to trust me and to lay bare what troubled her. The 
feeling passed; her face regained its natural hue, 
and she said petulantly, 

“ Why, yes, it seems fated that you should always 
be there, Simon; yet Betty Nasroth said nothing 
of it.” 

“ It may be well for you that I ’m here,” I answered 
hotly ; for her scorn stirred me to say what I should 
have left unsaid. 


165 


SIMON DALE 


I do not know how she would have answered, for 
at the moment we heard a shout from the watch- 
man who stood looking over the sea. He hailed a 
boat that came prancing over the waves ; a light 
answered his signal. Who came to the Castle? 
Barbara’s eyes and mine sought the ship; we did 
not know the stranger, but he was expected ; for a 
minute later Darrell ran quickly by us with an eager 
look on his face ; with him was the Count d’ Albon, 
who had come with Madame, and Depuy, the Duke 
of York’s servant. They went by at the top of their 
speed and in visible excitement. Barbara forgot 
her anger and haughtiness in fresh girlish interest. 

“ Who can it be ? ” she cried, coming so near to 
me that her sleeve touched mine, and leaning over 
the wall towards where the ship’s black hull was to 
be seen far below in the moonlight by the jetty. 

“Doubtless it’s the gentleman whom Madame 
expects,” said I. 

Many minutes passed, but through them Barbara 
and I stood silent side by side. Then the party 
came back through the gate, which had been opened 
for them. Depuy walked first, carrying a small 
trunk ; two or three servants followed with more 
luggage; then came Darrell in company with a 
short man who walked with a bold and confident 
air. The rest passed us, and the last pair approached. 
Now Darrell saw Mistress Barbara and doffed his 
hat to her. The new-comer did the like and more ; 
he halted immediately opposite to us and looked 
curiously at her, sparing a curious glance for me. I 
bowed ; she waited unmoved until the gentleman 
said to Darrell, 

“Pray present me.” 

“ This, madame,” said Darrell in whose voice there 
was a ring of excitement and tremulous agitation, 
166 


THE GENTLEMAN FROM CALAIS 

“ is M. de Perrencourt, who has the honour of serv- 
ing Her Royal Highness the Duchess. This lady, 
sir, is Mistress Barbara Quinton, maid of honour to 
the Duchess of York, and now in attendance on 
Madame.” 

Barbara made a curtsey, M. de Perrencourt bowed. 
His eyes were fixed on her face; he studied her 
openly and fearlessly, yet the regard was difficult to 
resent, it was so calm, assured and dignified. It 
seemed beyond challenge, if not beyond reproach. 
I stood by in silence, angry at a scrutiny so pro- 
longed, but without title to interfere. 

“ I trust, madame, that we shall be better ac- 
quainted, ” he said at last, and with a lingering look 
at her face passed on. I turned to her ; she was 
gazing after him with eager eyes. My presence 
seemed forgotten ; I would not remind her of it ; I 
turned away in silence, and hastened after Darrell 
and his companion. The curve of the wall hid them 
fi*om my sight, but I quickened my pace; I gained 
on them, for now I heard their steps ahead ; I ran 
round the next corner, for I was ablaze with curi- 
osity to see more of this man, who came at so strange 
an hour and yet was expected, who bore himself so 
loftily, and yet was but a gentleman-in- waiting as 
I was. Round the next corner I should come in 
sight of him. Round I went, and I came plump 
into the arms of my good friend Darrell, who stood 
there, squarely across the path ! 

“ Whither away, Simon ? ” said he coldly. 

I halted, stood still, looked him in the face. He 
met my gaze with a calm, self-controlled smile. 

“ Why,” said I, “ I’m on my way to bed, Darrell. 
Let me pass, I beg you.” 

“ A moment later will serve,” said he. 

“Not a moment,” I rephed testily, and caught 
167 


SIMON DALE 


him by the arm. He was stiff as a rock, but I put 
out my strength and in another instant should 
have thrown him aside. But he cried in a loud, an- 
gry voice, 

“ By the King’s orders, no man is to pass this 
way.” 

Amazed, I fell back. But over his head, some 
twenty yards from us, I saw two men embracing 
one another warmly. Nobody else was near ; Dar- 
rell’s eyes were fixed on me, and his hand detained 
me in an eager grasp. But I looked hard at the 
pair there ahead of me ; there was a cloud over the 
moon now, in a second it passed. The next mo- 
ment the two had turned their backs and were 
walking off together. Darrell, seeing my fixed 
gaze, turned also. His face was pale, as if with ex- 
citement, but he spoke in cool, level tones. 

“ It’s only M. Colbert greeting M. de Perren- 
court,” said he. 

“ Ah, of course ! ” I cried, turning to him with a 
smile. “ But where did M. Colbert get that Star ? ” 
For the glitter of the decoration had caught my eye, 
as it sparkled in the moonhght. 

There was a pause before Darrell answered. Then 
he said, 

“ The King gave him his own Star to-night, in 
compliment to Madame.” 

And in truth M. Colbert wore that Star when he 
walked abroad next morning, and professed much 
gratitude for it to the King. I have wondered since 
whether he should not have thanked a humbler man. 
Had I not seen the Star on the breast of the gen- 
tleman who embraced M. de Perrencourt, should I 
have seen it on the breast of M. Colbert de Croissy ? 
In truth I doubt it. 


168 


CHAPTER XII 


THE DEFERENCE OF HIS GRACE THE DUKE 

Certainly he had some strange ways, this M. de 
Perrencourt. It was not enough for him to arrive 
by night, nor to have his meeting with M. Colbert 
(whose Star Darrell made me observe most par- 
ticularly next morning) guarded from intruding 
eyes by the King s own order. He showed a predi- 
lection for darkness and was visible in the daytime 
only in Madame’ s apartment, or when she went to 
visit the King. The other French gentlemen and 
ladies manifested much curiosity concerning the 
town and the neighbourhood, and with Madame and 
the Duke of Monmouth at their head took part in 
many pleasant excursions. In a day or two the 
Queen also and the Duchess of York came from 
London, and the doings grew more gay and merry. 
But M. de Perrencourt was not to be tempted ; no 
pastimes, no jaunts allured him; he did not put his 
foot outside the walls of the Castle, and was little 
seen inside it. I myself did not set eyes on him for 
two days after my first sight of him ; but after that 
I beheld him fairly often, and the more I saw him 
the more I wondered. Of a truth his retiring be- 
haviour was dictated by no want of assurance nor 
by undue modesty ; he was not abashed in the pres- 
ence of the great and bore himself as composedly 
before the King as in the presence of a lackey. It 
was plain, too, that he enjoyed Madame’s confidence 
in no common degree, for when affairs of State were 
169 


SIMON DALE 


discussed and all withdrew save Madame, her broth- 
ers and the Secretary (even the Duke of Mon- 
mouth not being admitted), the last we saw as we 
made our bows and backed out of the doorway 
would be M. de Perrencourt standing in an easy 
and unconstrained attitude behind Madame’s chair 
and manifesting no overpowering sense of the sig- 
nal honour paid to him by the permission to re- 
main. As may be supposed, a theory sprang up 
to account for the curious regard this gentleman 
commanded ; it was put about (some said that 
Lord Arlington himself gave his authority for the 
report) that M. de Perrencourt was legal guardian 
to his cousin Mile, de Qu^rouaille, and that the 
King had discovered special reasons for conciliating 
the gentleman by every means, and took as much 
pains to please him as to gain favour with the lady 
herself. Here was a good reason for M. de Per- 
rencourt s distinguished treatment, and no less for 
the composure and calm with which M. de Per- 
rencourt accepted it. To my mind, however, the 
manner of M. de Perrencourt’s arrival and the in- 
cident of M. Colbert’s Star found scarcely a suffi- 
cient explanation in this ingenious conjecture ; yet 
the story, thus circulated, was generally accepted 
and served its office of satisfying curiosity and blunt- 
ing question well enough. 

Again (for my curiosity would not be satisfied, 
nor the edge of my questioning be turned) — what 
had the Duke of Monmouth to gain from M. de 
Perrencourt? Something it seemed, or his con- 
duct was most mysterious. He cared nothing for 
Mile, de Querouaille, and I could not suppose that 
the mere desire to please his father would have 
weighed with him so strongly as to make him to 
170 


THE DEFERENCE OF THE DUKE 

all appearance the humble servant of this French 
gentleman. The thing was brought home most 
forcibly to my mind on the third evening after M. 
de Perrencourt’s arrival. A private conference was 
held and lasted some hours ; outside the closed 
doors we all paced to and fro, hearing nothing save 
now and then Madame s clear voice, raised, as it 
seemed, in exhortation or persuasion. The Duke, 
who was glad enough to escape the tedium of State 
affairs but at the same time visibly annoyed at his 
exclusion, sauntered listlessly up and down, speak- 
ing to nobody. Perceiving that he did not desire 
my company, I withdrew to a distance, and, having 
seated myself in a retired corner, was soon lost in 
consideration of my own fortunes past and to come. 
The hour grew late ; the gentlemen and ladies of 
the Court, having offered and accepted compli- 
ments and gallantries till invention and complai- 
sance alike were exhausted, dropped off one by one, 
in search of supper, wine, or rest. I sat on in my 
corner. Nothing was to be heard save the oc- 
casional voices of the two musketeers on guard on 
the steps leading from the second storey of the 
keep to the State apartments. I knew that I must 
move soon, for at night the gate on the stairs was 
shut. It was another of the peculiar facts about 
M. de Perrencourt that he alone of the gentlemen- 
in- waiting had been lodged within the precincts of 
the royal quarters, occupying an apartment next to 
the Duke of York, who had his sister Madame for 
his neighbour on the other side. The prolonged 
conference was taking place in the King’s cabinet 
farther along the passage. 

Suddenly I heard steps on the stairs, the word of 
the night was asked, and Monmouth’s voice made 
171 


SIMON DALE 


answer “ Saint Denis ” ; for just now everything was 
French in compliment to Madame. The steps con- 
tinued to ascend ; the hght in the corridor was 
very dim, but a moment later I perceived Mon- 
mouth and Carford. Carford’s arm was through 
his Grace’s, and he seemed to be endeavouring to 
restrain him. Monmouth shook him off with a 
laugh and an oath. 

“ I’m not going to listen,” he cried. ‘‘ Why 
should I listen ? Do I want to hear the King pray- 
ing to the Virgin ? ” 

“Silence, for God’s sake, silence, your Grace,” 
implored Carford. 

“That’s what he does, isn’t it? He, and the 
Queen’s Chaplain, and the ” 

“Pray, sir!” 

“ And our good M. de Perrencourt, then ? ” He 
burst into a bitter laugh as he mentioned the gen- 
tleman’s name. 

I had heard more than was meant for my ears, 
and what was enough (if I may use a distinction 
drawn by my old friend the Vicar) for my under- 
standing. I was in doubt whether to declare my 
presence or not. Had Monmouth been alone, I 
would have shown myself directly, but I did not 
wish Carford to be aware that I had overheard so 
much. I sat still a moment longer in hesitation ; 
then I uttered a loud yawn, groaned, stretched 
myself, rose to my feet, and gave a sudden and 
very obvious start, as I let my eyes fall on the 
Duke. 

“Why, Simon,” he cried, “what brings you 
here ? ” 

“ I thought your Grace was in the King’s cabi- 
net,” I answered. 


172 


THE DEFERENCE OF THE DUKE 


“ But you knew that I left them some hours 
since.” 

‘‘Yes, but having lost sight of your Grace, I 
supposed that you’d returned, and while waiting 
for you I fell asleep.” 

My explanation abundantly satisfied the Duke; 
Carford maintained a wary silence. 

“We’re after other game than conferences to- 
night,” said Monmouth, laughing again. “Go 
down to the hall and wait there for me, Simon. 
My lord and I are going to pay a visit to the ladies 
of Madame and the Duchess of York.” 

I saw that he was merry with wine ; Carford had 
been drinking too, but he grew only more glum 
and mahcious with his liquor. Neither their state 
nor the hour seemed fitted for the visit the Duke 
spoke of, but I was helpless, and with a bow took 
my way down the stairs to the hall below, where I 
sat down on the steps that led up to one of the 
loop-holes. A great chair, standing by the wall, 
served to hide me from observation. For a few 
moments nothing occurred. Then I heard a loud 
burst of laughter from above. Feet came run- 
ning down the steps into the hall, and a girl in a 
white dress darted across the floor. I heard her 
laugh, and knew that she was Barbara Quinton. 
An instant later came Monmouth, hot on her heels, 
and imploring her in extravagant words not to be 
so cruel and heartless as to fly from him. But 
where was Carford? I could only suppose that 
my lord had the discretion to stay behind when the 
Duke of Monmouth desired to speak with the lady 
whom my lord sought for his wife. 

In my humble judgment, a very fine, large, and 
subtle volume might be composed on the canons of 
12 173 


SIMON DALE 


eavesdropping — when a man may listen, when he 
may not, and for how long he may, to what end, 
for what motives, in what causes, and on what 
provocations. It may be that the Roman Divines, 
who, as I understand, are greatly adept in the 
science of casuistry, have accomplished already the 
task I indicate. I know not; at least I have no- 
where encountered the result of their labours. 
But now I sat still behind the great chair and 
listened without doubt or hesitation. Yet how 
long I could have controlled myself I know not, 
for his Grace made light of scruples that night and 
set bounds at nought. At first Mistress Barbara 
was merry with him, fencing and parrying, in con- 
fidence that he would use no roughness nor an 
undue vehemence. But on he went; and pres- 
ently a note of alarm sounded in her voice as she 
prayed him to suffer her to depart and return to the 
Duchess, who must have need of her. 

“ Nay, I won’t let you go, sweet mistress. 
Rather, I can’t let you go.” 

“Indeed, sir, I must go,” she said. “Come, I 
will call my Lord Carford, to aid me in persuading 
your Grace.” 

He laughed at the suggestion that a call for 
Carford would hinder him. 

“He won’t come,” he said; “ and if he came, 
he would be my ally, not yours.” 

She answered now haughtily and coldly : 

“ Sir, Lord Carford is a suitor for my hand. It 
is in your Grace’s knowledge that he is.” 

“But he thinks a hand none the worse because 
I’ve kissed it,” retorted Monmouth. “You don’t 
know how amiable a husband you’re to have, Mis- 
tress Barbara.” 


174 


THE DEFERENCE OF THE DUKE 


I was on my feet now, and, peering round the 
chair which hid me jfrom them, I could see her 
standing against the wall, with Monmouth oppo- 
site to her. He offered to seize her hand, but she 
drew it away sharply. With a laugh he stepped 
nearer to her. A slight sound caught my ear, and, 
turning my head, I saw Carford on the lowest step 
of the stairs ; he was looking at the pair, and a 
moment later stepped backwards, till he was almost 
hidden from my sight, though I could still make 
out the shape of his figure. A cry of triumph 
from Monmouth echoed low but intense through 
the hall ; he had caught the elusive hand and was 
kissing it passionately. Barbara stood still and stiff. 
The Duke, keeping her hand still in his, said mock- 
ingly : 

“ You pretty fool, would you refuse fortune ? 
Hark, madame, I am a King’s son. ’ ’ 

I saw no movement in her, but the light was 
dim. He went on, lowering his voice a little, yet 
not much. 

“ And I may be a King ; stranger things have 
come to pass. Wouldn’t you like to be a Queen ? ” 
He laughed as he put the question ; he lacked 
the care or the cunning to make even a show of 
honesty. 

“ Let me go,” I heard her whisper in a strained, 
timid voice. 

“ Well, for to-night you shall go, sweetheart, but 
not without a kiss, I swear.” 

She was frightened now, and sought to pro- 
pitiate him, saying gently and with attempted 
lightness, 

“Your Grace has my hand prisoner. You can 
work your will on it.” 


175 


SIMON DALE 


‘‘ Your hand ! I mean your lips this time,” he 
cried in audacious insolence. He came nearer to 
her, his arm crept round her waist. I had endured 
what I could, yes, and as long as I could ; for I was 
persuaded that I could serve her better by leaving 
her unaided for the moment. But my limit was 
reached ; I stepped out from behind the chair. 
But in an instant I was back again. Monmouth 
had paused ; in one hand he held Barbara’s hand, 
the other rested on her girdle, but he turned his 
head and looked at the stairs. Voices had come 
from there ; he had heard them as I had, as Barbara 
had. 

“You can’t pass out,” had come in a blustering 
tone from Carford. 

“ Stand aside, sir,” was the answer in a calm, im- 
perative voice. 

Carford hesitated for a single instant, then he 
seemed to shrink away, making himself small and 
leaving free passage for a man who came down the 
steps and walked confidently and briskly across 
the hall towards where the Duke stood with Bar- 
bara. 

Above us, at the top of the stairs, there were the 
sound of voices and the tread of feet. The confer- 
ence was broken up and the parties to it were talk- 
ing in the passage on their way to regain their own 
apartments. I paid no heed to them ; my eyes 
were fixed on the intruder who came so bolcfiy and 
unabashed up to the Duke. I knew him now ; he 
was M. de Perrencourt, Madam e’s gentleman. 

Without wavering or pausing, straight he walked. 
Monmouth seemed turned to stone ; I could see his 
face set and rigid, although light failed me to catch 
that look in the eyes by which you may best know 
176 


THE DEFERENCE OF THE DUKE 


a man’s mood. Not a sound or a motion came 
from Carford. Barbara herself was stiff and still, 
her regard bent on M. de Perrencourt. He stood 
now directly over against her and Monmouth; it 
seemed long before he spoke. Indeed, I had 
looked for Monmouth’s voice first, for an oath of 
vexation at the interruption, for a curse on the 
intruder and a haughty order to him to be gone and 
not interfere with what concerned his betters. No 
such word, nor any words, issued from the mouth of 
the Duke. And still M. de Perrencourt was silent. 
Carford stole covertly from the steps nearer to the 
group until, gliding across the hall, he was almost 
at the Frenchman’s elbow. Still M. de Perrencourt 
was silent. 

Slowly and reluctantly, as though in deference 
to an order that he loathed but dared not disobey, 
Monmouth drew his arm away; he loosed Bar- 
bara’s hand, she drew back, leaning against the wall ; 
the Duke stood with his arms by his side, looking 
at the man who interrupted his sport and seemed 
to have power to control his will. Then, at last, 
in crisp, curt, ungracious tones, M. de Perrencourt 
spoke. 

“ I thank you. Monsieur le Due,” said he. “ I 
was sure that you would perceive your error soon. 
This is not the lady you supposed, this is Mistress 
Quinton. I desire to speak with her, pray give 
me leave.” 

The King would not have spoken in this style to 
his pampered son, and the Duke of York himself 
dared not have done it. But no touch of uneasi- 
ness or self-distrust appeared in M. de Perrencourt’s 
smooth cutting speech. Truly he was high in Ma- 
dame’s confidence, and, likely enough, a great man 
177 


SIMON DALE 


in his own country ; but, on my life, I looked to 
see the hot-tempered Duke strike him across the 
face. Even I, who had been about to interfere 
myself, by some odd momentary turn of feeling re- 
sented the insolence with which Monmouth was 
assailed. Would he not resent it much more for 
himself? No. For an instant I heard his quick 
breathing, the breathing of a man who fights anger, 
holding it under with great labour and struggling. 
Then he spoke ; in his voice also there was passion 
hard held. 

“ Here, sir, and everywhere,” he said, “ you have 
only to command to be obeyed.” Slowly he bent 
his head low, the gesture matching the humility of 
his words, while it emphasised their unwillingness. 

The strange submission won no praise. M. de 
Perrencourt did not accord the speech so much 
courtesy as lay in an answer. His silent slight bow 
was all his acknowledgment; he stood there wait- 
ing for his command to be obeyed. 

Monmouth turned once towards Barbara, but his 
eyes came back to M. de Perrencourt. Carford 
advanced to him and offered his arm. The Duke 
laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder. For a mo- 
ment they stood still thus, then both bowed low to 
M. de Perrencourt, who answered with another of 
his slight inclinations of the head. They turned 
and walked out of the haU, the Duke seeming al- 
most to stagger and to lean on Carford, as though 
to steady his steps. As they went they passed 
within two yards of me, and 1 saw Monmouth’s 
face pale with rage. With a long indrawing of my 
breath I drew back into the shadow of my shelter. 
They passed, the hall was empty save for myself 
and the two who stood there by the wall. 

178 


THE DEFERENCE OF THE DUKE 


I had no thought now of justifying my part of 
eavesdropper. Scruples were drowned in excite- 
ment ; keen interest bound me to my place with 
chains of iron. My brain was full of previous sus- 
picion thrice magnified ; all that was mysterious 
in this man came back to me ; the message I had 
surprised at Canterbury ran echoing through my 
head again and again. Yet I bent myself to the 
task of listening, resolute to catch every word. 
Alas, my efforts were in vain ! M. de Perrencourt 
was of different clay from his Grace the Duke. He 
was indeed speaking now, but so low and warily 
that no more than a gentle murmur reached my 
ears. Nor did his gestures aid ; they were as far 
from Monmouth's jovial violence as his tones from 
the Duke’s reckless exclaiming. He was urgent 
but courteous, most insistent yet most deferential. 
Monmouth claimed and challenged, M. de Perren- 
court seemed to beseech and woo. Yet he asked 
as though none could refuse, and his prayer pre- 
sumed a favourable answer. Barbara listened in 
quiet ; I could not tell whether fear alone bound 
her, or whether the soft courtly voice bred fascina- 
tion also. I was half-mad that I could not hear, 
and had much ado not to rush out, unprovoked, 
and defy the man before whom my master had 
bowed almost to the ground, beaten and dis- 
mayed. 

At last she spoke a few hurried, imploring words. 

“No, no,” she panted. “No; pray leave me. 
No.” 

M. de Perrencourt answered gently and beseech- 
ingly, 

“Nay, say ‘Not yet,’ madame.” 

They were silent again, he seeming to regard 
179 


SIMON DALE 


her intently. Suddenly she covered her face with 
her hands ; yet, dropping her hands almost imme- 
diately, she set her eyes on his ; I saw him shake 
his head. 

“For to-night, then, good-night, fairest lady,” 
said he. He took her hand and kissed it lightly, 
bowing very low and respectfully, she looking 
down at him as he stooped. Then he drew away 
from her, bowing again and repeating again, 

“ For to-night, good-night.” 

With this he turned towards the stairs, crossing 
the hall with the same brisk, confident tread that 
had marked his entry. He left her, but it looked 
as though she were indulged, not he defeated. At 
the lowest step he paused, turned, bowed low 
again. This time she answered with a deep and 
sweeping curtsey. Then he was gone, and she 
was leaning by the wall again, her face buried in 
her hands. I heard her sob, and her broken words 
reached me: 

‘‘ What shall I do ? Oh, what shall I do ? ” 

At once I stepped out from the hiding-place 
that had shown me such strange things, and, cross- 
ing to her, hat in hand, answered her sad, desolate 
question. 

‘‘ Why, trust in your friends. Mistress Barbara,” 
said I cheerily. “ What else can any lady do ? ” 

“ Simon ! ” she cried eagerly, and as I thought 
gladly ; for her hand flew out out to mine. ‘‘ You 
here ? ” 

“ And at your service always,” said I. 

“But have you been here? Where did you 
come from ? ” 

“ Why, from across the hall, behind the chair 
there,” I answered. “ I Ve been there a long while 
180 


THE DEFERENCE OF THE DUKE 


back. His Grace told me to wait in the hall, and 
in the hall I waited, though the Duke, having 
other things to think of, forgot both his order and 
his servant.” 

“ Then you heard ? ” she asked in a whisper. 

‘‘ All, I think, that the Duke said. Lord Car- 
ford said nothing. I was about to interrupt his 
Grace when the task was better performed for me. 
I think, madame, you owe some thanks to M. de 
Perrencourt.” 

“ You heard what he said ? ” 

“ The last few words only,” I answered regret- 
fully. 

She looked at me for an instant, and then said 
with a dreary little smile, 

“ I’m to be grateful to M. de Perrencourt ? ” 

“ I know no other man who could or would have 
rid you of the Duke so finely. Besides, he ap- 
peared to treat you with much courtesy.” 

“ Courtesy, yes ! ” she cried, but seemed to check 
herself. She was still in great agitation, and a mo- 
ment later she covered her face and I heard her 
sob again. 

“ Come, take heart,” said I. “ The Duke’s a 
great man, of course ; but no harm shall come to 
you. Mistress Barbara. Your father bade me have 
my services in readiness for you, and although I 
didn’t need his order as a spur, I may pray leave 
to use it as an excuse for thrusting myself on you.” 

“ Indeed I — I’m glad to see you, Simon. But 
what shall I do? Ah, Heaven, why did I ever 
come to this place ? ” 

“ That can be mended by leaving it, madame.” 

“ But how ? How can I leave it ? ” she asked 
despairingly. 


181 


SIMON DALE 


“ The Duchess will grant you leave.” 

“ Without the King’s consent ? ” 

“ But won’t the King consent ? Madame will 
ask for you; she’s kind.” 

“ Madame won’t ask for me ; nobody will ask 
for me.” 

“ Then if leave be impossible, we must go with- 
out leave, if you speak the word.” 

“Ah, you don’t know,” she said sadly. Then 
she caught my hand again and whispered hurried- 
ly and fearfully : “I’m afraid, Simon. I — I fear 
him. What can I do ? How can I resist ? They 
can do what they will with me, what can I do ? 
If I weep, they laugh ; if I try to laugh, they take 
it for consent. What can I do ? ” 

There is nothing that so binds a man to a wo- 
man as to feel her hand seeking his in weakness 
and appeal. I had thought that one day so Bar- 
bara’s might seek mine and I should exult in it, 
nay, might even let her perceive my triumph. 
The thing I had dreamed of was come, but where 
was my exultation ? There was a choking in my 
throat and I swallowed twice before I contrived to 
answer : 

“ What can we do, you mean. Mistress Barbara.” 

“ Alas, alas,” she cried, between tears and laugh- 
ter, “ what can we — even we — do, Simon ? ” 

I noticed that she called me Simon, as in the 
old days before my apostacy and great offence. I 
was glad of it, for if I was to be of service to her 
we must be friends. Suddenly she said, 

“You know what it means — I can’t tell you; 
you know ? ” 

“ Ay, I know,” said I, “ none better. But the 
Duke sha’n’t have his way.” 

182 


THE DEFERENCE OF THE DUKE 

“ The Diike ? If it were only the Duke — Ah ! ” 
She stopped, a new alarm in her eyes. She searched 
my face eagerly. Of deliberate purpose I set it to 
an immutable stolidity. 

“ Already he’s very docile,” said I. “ See how 
M. de Perrencourt turned and twisted him, and 
sent him off crestfallen.” 

She laid her hand on my arm. 

“ If I might tell you, ’ ’ she said, “ a thing that 
few know here ; none but the King and his near 
kindred and one or two more.” 

“ But how came you to know of it ? ” I inter- 
rupted. 

“ I — I also came to know it,” she murmured. 

“ There are many ways of coming to know a 
thing,” said I. “ One is by being told ; another, 
madame, is by finding out. Certainly it was 
amazing how M. de Perrencourt dealt with his 
Grace ; ay, and with my Lord Carford, who shrank 
out of his path as though he had been — a king.” 
I let my tones give the last word full effect. 

“ Simon,” she whispered in eagerness mingled 
with alarm, “ Simon, what are you saying ? Si- 
lence for your life ! ’ ’ 

My life, madame, is rooted too deep for a syl- 
lable to tear it up. I said only ‘ as though he had 
been a king.’ Tell me why M. Colbert wears the 
King’s Star. Was it because somebody saw a 
gentleman wearing the King’s Star embrace and 
kiss M. de Perrencourt the night that he arrived ? ” 

‘‘ It was you ? ” 

‘‘ It was I, madame. Tell me on whose account 
three messengers went to London, carrying the 
words ‘ II vienL ’ ” 

She was hanging to my arm now, full of eagerness. 

183 


SIMON DALE 


“ And tell me now what M. de Perrencourt said 
to you. A plague on him, he spoke so low that I 
couldn’t hear ! ” 

A blush swept over her face ; her eyes, losing 
the fire of excitement, dropped in confusion to the 
ground. 

“ I can’t tell you,” she murmured. 

‘‘Yet I know,” said I. “And if you’ll trust 
me, madame ” 

“ Ah, Simon, you know I trust you.” 

“ Yet you were angry with me.” 

“Not angry — I had no right — I mean I had no 
cause to be angry. I — I was grieved.” 

“ You need be grieved no longer, madame.” 

“ Poor Simon ! ” said she very gently. I felt the 
lightest pressure on my hand, the touch of two slim 
fingers, speaking of sympathy and comradeship. 

“ By God, I’ll bring you safe out of it,” I cried. 

“ But how, how ? Simon, I fear that he 
has ” 


“ The Duke ? ” 

“No, the — the other — M. de Perrencourt; he 
has set his heart on — on what he told me.” 

“ A man may set his heart on a thing and yet not 
win it,” said I grimly. 

“Yes, a man — yes, Simon, I know; a man 
may ” 

“ Ay, and even a ” 

“ Hush, hush ! If you were overheard — your 
life wouldn’t be safe if you were overheard.” 

“ What do I care ? ” 


“ But I care 1 ” she cried, and added very hastily 
“ I’m selfish. 1 care, because I want your help.” 

“ You shall have it. Against the Duke of Mon- 
mouth, and against the ” 


184 


THE DEFERENCE OF THE DUKE 


Ah, be careful ! ” 

I would not be careful. My blood was up. My 
voice was loud and bold as I gave to M. de Per- 
rencourt the name that was his, the name by which 
the frightened lord and the cowed Duke knew him, 
the name that gave him entrance to those inmost 
secret conferences, and yet kept him himself hid- 
den and half a prisoner in the Castle. The secret 
was no secret to me now. 

“Against the Duke of Monmouth,” said I stur- 
dily, “and also, if need be, against the King of 
France.” 

Barbara caught at my arm in alarm. I laughed, 
till I saw her finger point warily over my shoulder. 
With a start I turned and saw a man coming down 
the steps. In the dim light the bright Star gleamed 
on his breast. He was M. Colbert de Croissy. 
He stood on the lowest step, peering at us through 
the gloom. 

“ Who speaks of the King of France here ? ” he 
said suspiciously. 

“ I, Simon Dale, gentleman- in- waiting to the 
Duke of Monmouth, at your Excellency’s service,” 
I answered, advancing towards him and making 
my bow. 

“ What have you to say of my master ? ” he de- 
manded. 

For a moment I was at a loss ; for although my 
heart was full of things that I should have taken 
much pleasure in saying concerning His Majesty, 
they were none of them acceptable to the ears of 
His Majesty’s Envoy. I stood, looking at Colbert, 
and my eyes fell on the Star that he wore. I knew 
that I committed an imprudence, but for the life 
of me I could not withstand the temptation. I 
185 


SIMON DALE 

made another bow, and, smiling easily, answered 
M. Colbert. 

“ I was remarking, sir,” said I, “ that the com- 
pliment paid to you by the King of England in 
bestowing on you the Star from His Majesty’s own 
breast, could not fail to cause much gratification 
to the King of France.” 

He looked me hard in the eyes, but his eyes fell 
to the ground before mine. I warrant he took 
nothing by his searching glance, and did well to 
give up the conflict. Without a word, and with a 
stiff little bow, he passed on his way to the hall. 
The moment he was gone, Barbara was by me. 
Her face was alight with merriment. 

“ Oh, Simon, Simon ! ” she whispered reprovingly. 
“ But I love you for it ! ” And she was gone up 
the stairs like a flitting moonbeam. 

Upon this, having my head full and to spare of 
many matters, and my heart beating quick with 
more than one emotion, I thought my bed the best 
and safest place for me, and repaired to it without 
delay. 

“ But I’ll have some conversation with M, de 
Perrencourt to-morrow,” said I, as I turned on my 
pillow and sought to sleep. 


186 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE MEED OF CURIOSITY 

The next morning my exaltation had gone. I 
woke a prey to despondency and sickness of soul. 
Not only did difficulty loom large, and failure seem 
inevitable, but a disgust for all that surrounded me 
seized on my mind, displacing the zest of adventure 
and the excitement of enterprise. But let me not 
set my virtue too high. It is better to be plain. 
Old maxims of morality, and a standard of right 
acknowledged by all but observed by none, have 
little power over a young man’s hot blood ; to 
be stirred to indignation, he must see the wrong 
threaten one he respects, touch one he loves, or 
menace his own honour and pride. I had sup- 
ported the scandals of this Court, of which I made 
a humble part, with shrugs, smiles, and acid jests; 
I had felt no dislike for the chief actors, and no 
horror at the things they did or attempted ; nay, 
for one of them, who might seem to sum up in her 
own person the worst of all that was to be urged 
against King and Court, I had cherished a desper- 
ate love that bred even in death an obstinate and 
longing memory. Now a change had come over 
me; I seemed to see no longer through my own 
careless eyes, but with the shamed and terrified 
vision of the girl who, cast into this furnace, caught 
at my hand as offering her the sole chance to pass 
unscathed through the fire. They were using her 
in their schemes, she was to be sacrificed; first she 
187 


SIMON DALE 


had been chosen as the lure with which to draw 
forth Monmouth’s ambitions from their lair, and 
reveal them to the spying eyes of York and his 
tool Carford ; if that plan were changed now, she 
would be no better for the change. The King 
would and could refuse this M. de Perrencourt (I 
laughed bitterly as I muttered his name) nothing, 
however great; without a thought he would fling 
the girl to him, if the all-powerful finger were 
raised to ask for her. Charles would think himself 
well paid by his brother king’s complaisance towards 
his own inclination. Doubtless there were great 
bargains of policy a-making here in the Castle, and 
the nature of them I made shift to guess. What 
was it to throw in a trifle on either side, barter 
Barbara Quinton against the French lady, and con- 
tent two Princes at a price so low as the dishon- 
our of two ladies ? That was the game ; other- 
wise, whence came M. de Perrencourt’s court and 
Monmouth’s deference ? The King saw eye to eye 
with M. de Perrencourt, and the King’s son did 
not venture to thwart him. What matter that 
men spoke of other loves which the French King 
had? The gallants of Paris might think us in 
England rude and ignorant, but at least we had 
learnt that a large heart was a prerogative of roy- 
alty which even the Parliament dared not ques- 
tion. With a new loathing I loathed it all, for it 
seemed now to lay aside its trappings of pomp and 
brilliancy, of jest and wit, and display itself before 
me in ugly nakedness, all unashamed. In sudden 
frenzy I sat up in my bed, crying, “ Heaven will 
find a way!” For surely heaven could find one, 
where the devil found so many! Ah, righteous 
wert thou, Simon Dale, so soon as unrighteousness 
188 


THE MEED OF CURIOSITY 


hurt thee 1 But Phineas Tate might have preached 
until the end of time. 

Earlier than usual by an hour Jonah Wall came 
up from the town where he was lodged, but he 
found me up and dressed, eager to act, ready for 
what might chance. I had seen little of the fellow 
lately, calling on him for necessary services only, 
and ridding myself of his sombre company as 
quickly as I could. Yet I looked on him to-day 
with more consideration ; his was a repulsive form 
of righteousness, grim and gloomy, but it was 
righteousness, or seemed such to me against the 
background of iniquity which threw it up in strong 
relief. I spoke to him kindly, but taking no heed 
of my advances he came straight up to me and said 
brusquely : “ The woman who came to your lodg- 
ing in London is here in Dover. She bids you he 
silent and come quickly. I can lead you.” 

I started and stared at him. I had set “Finis” 
to that chapter; was fate minded to overrule me 
and write more? Strange also that Jonah Wall 
should play Mercury I 

“She here in Dover? For what?” I asked as 
calmly as I could. 

“I don’t doubt, for sin,” he answered uncom- 
promisingly. 

“Yet you can lead me to her house?” said I 
with a smile. 

“ I can,” said he, in sour disregard of my hinted 
banter. 

“ I won’t go,” I declared. 

“The matter concerns you, she said, and might 
concern another.” 

It was early, the Court would not be moving for 
two hours yet. I could go and come, and thereby 
13 189 


SIMON DALE 


lose no opportunity. Curiosity led me on, and 
with it the attraction which still draws us to those 
we have loved, though the love be gone and more 
pain than pleasure wait on our visiting. In ten 
minutes I was following Jonah down the cliff, and 
plunged thence into a narrow street that ran curl- 
ing and curving towards the sea. Jonah held on 
quickly and without hesitation, until we reached a 
confined alley, and came to a halt before a mean 
house. 

“ She’s here,” said Jonah, pointing to the door 
and twisting his face as though he was swallowing 
something nauseous. 

I could not doubt of her presence, for I heard 
her voice singing gaily from within. My heart 
beat quick, and I had above half a mind not to 
enter. But she had seen us, and herself flung the 
door open wide. She lodged on the ground floor ; 
and, in obedience to her beckoning finger, I entered 
a small room. Lodging was hard to be had in 
Dover now, and the apartment served her (as the 
bed, carelessly covered with a curtain, showed) for 
sleeping and living. I did not notice what became 
of Jonah, but sat down, puzzled and awkward, in a 
crazy chair. 

“ What brings you here ? ” I blurted out, fixing 
my eyes on her, as she stood opposite to me, 
smiling and swaying to and fro a little, with her 
hands on her hips. 

“ Even what brings you. My business,” she 
answered. “If you ask more, the King’s invita- 
tion. Does that grieve you, Simon ? ” 

“ No, madame,” said I. 

“ A little, still a little, Simon ? Be consoled ! 
The King invited me, but he hasn’t come to see 
190 


THE MEED OF CURIOSITY 


me. There lies my business. Why hasn’t he 
come to see me ? I hear certain things, but my 
eyes, though they are counted good if not large, 
can’t pierce the walls of the Castle yonder, and 
my poor feet aren’t fit to pass its threshold.” 

“You needn’t grieve for that,” said I sullenly. 

“Yet some things I know. As that a French 
lady is there. Of what appearance is she, Simon ? ” 

“ She is very pretty, so far as I’ve looked at 

“ Ah, and you’ve a discriminating glance, haven’t 
you ? Will she stay long? ” 

“ They say Madame will be here for ten or four- 
teen days yet.” 

“ And the French lady goes when Madame 
goes ? ” 

“ I don’t know as to that.” 

“Why, nor I neither.” She paused an instant. 
“You don’t love Lord Carford?” Her question 
came abruptly and unlooked for. 

“ I don’t know your meaning. ’ ’ What concern 
had Carford with the French lady ? 

‘ ‘ I think you are in the way to learn it. Love 
makes men quick, doesn’t it ? Yes, since you ask 
(your eyes asked) why. I’ll confess that I’m a 
little sorry that you fall in love again. But that 
by the way. Simon, neither do I love this French 
lady.” 

Had it not been for that morning’s mood of 
mine, she would have won on me again, and all 
my resolutions gone for naught. But she, not 
knowing the working of my mind, took no pains 
to hide or to soften what repelled me in her. I 
had seen it before, and yet loved ; to her it would 
seem strange that because a man saw, he should 
191 


SIMON DALE 


not love. I found myself sorry for her, with a 
new and pitiful grief, but passion did not rise in 
me. And concerning my pity I held my tongue ; 
she would have only wonder and mockery for it. 
But I think she was vexed to see me so unmoved ; 
it irks a woman to lose a man, however little she 
may have prized him when he was her own. Nor 
do I mean to say that we are different from their 
sex in that ; it is, I take it, nature in woman and 
man alike. 

“ At least we’re friends, Simon,” she said with a 
laugh. “And at least we’re Protestants.” She 
laughed again. I looked up with a questioning 
glance. “ And at least we both hate the French,” 
she continued. 

“ It’s true ; I have no love for them. What 
then ? What can we do ? ” 

She looked round cautiously, and, coming a little 
nearer to me, whispered : 

“ Late last night I had a visitor, one who doesn’t 
love me greatly. What does that matter? We 
row now in the same boat. I speak of the Duke 
of Buckingham.” 

“ He is reconciled to my Lord Arlington by 
Madame’s good offices,” said I. For so the story 
ran in the Castle. 

“Why, yes, he’s reconciled to Arlington as the 
dog to the cat when their master is by. Now 
there’s a thing that the Duke suspects ; and there’s 
another thing that he knows. He suspects that 
this treaty touches more than war with the Dutch ; 
though that I hate, for war swallows the King’s 
money like a well.” 

“Some passes the mouth of the well, if report 
speaks true, ” I observed. 

192 


THE MEED OF CURIOSITY 

“Peace, peace ! Simon, the treaty touches 
more.” 

“ A man need not be Duke nor Minister to sus- 
pect that,” said I. 

“ Ah, you suspect ? The Kind’s relimon ? ” she 
whispered. 

I nodded ; the secret was no surprise to me, 
though I had not known whether Buckingham 
were in it. 

“ And what does the Duke of Buckingham 
know ? ” I asked. 

“Why, that the King sometimes listens to a 
womans counsel,” said she, nodding her head and 
smiling very wisely. 

“ Prodigious sagacity 1 ” I cried. “ You told him 
that, maybe ? ” 

“ Indeed, he had learnt it before my day. Master 
Simon. Therefore, should the King turn Catholic, 
he will be a better Catholic for the society of a 
Catholic lady. Now this Madame — how do you 
name her ? ” 

“ Mile, de Qu^rouaille ? ” 

“ Ay. She is a most devout Catholic. Indeed, 
her devotion to her religion knows no bounds. It’s 
like mine to the King. Don’t frown, Simon. 
Loyalty is a virtue.” 

‘ ‘ And piety also, by the same rule and in the 
same unstinted measure ? ” I asked bitterly. 

“ Beyond doubt, sir. But the French King has 
sent word from Calais ” 

“ Oh, from Calais ! The Duke revealed that to 
you ? ” I asked with a smile I could not smother. 
There was a limit then to the Duke’s confidence in 
his ally; for the Duke had been at Paris and could 
be no stranger to M. de Perrencourt. 

193 


SIMON DALE 


“Yes, he told me all. The King of France has 
sent word from Calais, where he awaits the signing 
of the treaty, that the loss of this Madame Qudrou- 
aille would rob his Court of beauty, and he cannot 
be so bereft. And Madame, the Duke says, swears 
she can’t be robbed of her fairest Maid of Honour 
(’tis a good name that, on my life) and left desolate. 
But Madame has seen one who might make up the 
loss, and the King of France, having studied the 
lady’s picture, thinks the same. In fine, Simon, 
our King feels that he can’t be a good Catholic 
without the counsels of Madame Qu^rouaille, and 
the French King feels that he must by all means 
convert and save so fair a lady as — is the name on 
your tongue, nay, is it in your heart, Simon ? ” 

“ I know whom you mean,” I answered, for her 
revelation came to no more than what I had scented 
out for myself. “ But what says Buckingham to 
this?” 

“ Why, that the King mustn’t have his way lest 
he should thereby be confirmed in his Popish incli- 
nations. The Duke is Protestant, as you are — and 
as I am, so please you.” 

“ Can he hinder it? ” 

“Ay, if he can hinder the French King from 
having his way. And for this purpose his Grace 
has need of certain things.” 

“ Do you carry a message from him to me ? ” 

“ I did but say that I knew a gentleman who 
might supply his needs. They are four; a heart, 
a head, a hand, and perhaps a sword.” 

“ All men have them, then ? ” 

“ The first true, the second long, the third strong, 
and the fourth ready.” 

“ I fear then that I haven’t all of them.” 

194 : 


THE MEED OF CURIOSITY 


‘‘ And for reward ” 

“ I know. His life, if he can come off with it.” 
Nell burst out laughing. 

“ He didn’t say that, but it may well reckon up 
to much that figure,” she admitted. “ You’ll think 
of it, Simon ? ” 

“ Think of it ? I ! Not I ! ” 

“You won’t?” 

“ Or I mightn’t attempt it.” 

“ Ah ! You will attempt it ? ” 

“ Of a certainty.” 

“ You’re very ready. Is it all honesty ? ” 

“ Is ever anjrthing all honesty, madame — saving 
your devotion to the King ? ” 

“ And the French lady’s to her religion ? ” laughed 
Nell. “On my soul, I think the picture that the 
King of France saw was a fair one. Have you 
looked on it, Simon ? ” 

“ On my life I don’t love her.” 

“ On my life you will.” 

“ You seek to stop me by that prophecy ? ” 

“ I don’t care whom you love,” said she. Then 
her face broke into smiles. “What liars women 
are I” she cried. “Yes, I do care; not enough to 
grow wrinkled, but enough to wish I hadn’t grown 

half a lady and could ” 

“ You stop ? ” 

“ Could — could — could slap your face, Simon.” 

“ It would be a light infliction after breaking a 
man’s heart,” said I, turning my cheek to her and 
beckoning with my hand. 

“ You should have a revenge on my face; not in 
kind, but in kindness. I can’t strike a man who 
won’t hit back.” She laughed at me with all her 
old enticing gaiety. 


195 


SIMON DALE 


I had almost sealed the bargain ; she was so rog- 
uish and so pretty. Had we met first then, it is 
very likely she would have made the offer, and very 
certain that I should have taken it. But there 
had been other days ; I sighed. 

“I loved you too well once to kiss you now,” 
mistress,” said I. 

“You’re mighty strange at times, Simon,” said 
she, sighing also, and lifting her brows. “ Now, I’d 
as lief kiss a man I had loved as any other.” 

“ Or slap his face ? ” 

“ If I’d never cared to kiss, I’d never care for the 
other either. You rise ? ” 

“ Why, yes. I have my commission, haven’t I? ” 

“ I give you this one also, and yet you keep it ? ” 

“ Is that slight not yet forgiven ? ” 

“ All is forgiven and all is forgotten — nearly, 
Simon.” 

At this instant — and since man is human, woman 
persistent, and courtesy imperative, I did not quar- 
rel with the interruption — a sound came from the 
room above, strange in a house where Nell lived (if 
she will pardon so much candour), but oddly familiar 
to me. I held up my hand and hstened. Nell’s 
rippling laugh broke in. 

“Plague on him !” she cried. “Yes, he’s here. 
Of a truth he’s resolute to convert me, and the fool 
amuses me.” 

“ Phineas Tate ! ” I exclaimed, amazed ; for be- 
yond doubt his was the voice. I could tell his in- 
tonation of a penitential psalm among a thousand. 
I had heard it in no other key. 

“You didn’t know ? Yet that other fool, your 
servant, is always with him. They’ve been closeted 
together for two hours at a time.” 

196 


THE MEED OF CURIOSITY 


“ Psalm-singing ? ” 

“ Now and again. They’re often quiet too.” 

“ He preaches to you ? ” 

“ Only a little; when we chance to meet at the 
door he gives me a curse and promises a blessing ; 
no more.” 

“ It’s very little to come to Dover for.” 

“ You would have come farther for less of my 
company once, sir.” 

It was true, but it did not solve my wonder at 
the presence of Phineas Tate. What brought the 
fellow ? Had he too sniffed out something of what 
was afoot and come to fight for his religion, even as 
Louise de Querouaille fought for hers, though in a 
most different fashion ? 

I had reached the door of the room and was in 
the passage. Nell came to the threshold and stood 
there smiling. I had asked no more questions and 
made no conditions ; I knew that Buckingham must 
not show himself in the matter, and that all was left 
to me, heart, head, hand, sword, and also that same 
reward, if I were so lucky as to come by it. I 
waited for a moment, half expecting that Phineas, 
hearing my voice, would show himself, but he did 
not appear. Nell waved her hand to me; I bowed 
and took my leave, turning my steps back towards 
the Castle. The Court would be awake, and 
whether on my own account or for my new com- 
mission’s sake I must be there. 

I had not mounted far before I heard a puffing 
and blowing behind. The sound proved to come 
from Jonah Wall, who was toiling after me, laden 
with a large basket. I had no eagerness for Jonah’s 
society, but rejoiced to see the basket; for my pri- 
vate store of food and wine had run low, and if a 
197 


SIMON DALE 


man is to find out what he wants to know, it is well 
for him to have a pasty and a bottle ready for those 
who can help him. 

“ What have you there ? ” I called, waiting for 
him to overtake me. 

He explained that he had been making purchases 
in the town and I praised his zeal. Then I asked 
him suddenly : 

And have you visited your friend Mr. Tate ? ” 

As I live, the fellow went suddenly pale, and the 
bottles clinked in his basket from the shaking of 
his hand. Yet I spoke mildly enough. 

“ I — I have seen him but once or twice, sir, since 
I learnt that he was in the town. I thought you 
did not wish me to see him.” 

“Nay, you can see him as much as you like, as 
long as I don’t,” I answered in a careless tone, but 
keeping an attentive eye on Jonah. His perturba- 
tion seemed strange. If Phineas’ business were 
only the conversion of Mistress Gwyn, what rea- 
son had Jonah Wall to go white as Dover cliffs 
over it ? 

We came to the Castle and I dismissed him, 
bidding him stow his load safely in my quarters. 
Then I repaired to the Duke of Monmouth’s apart- 
ments, wondering in what mood I should find him 
after last night’s rebuff. Little did he think that I 
had been a witness of it. I entered his room ; he 
was sitting in his chair, with him was Carford. The 
Duke’s face was as glum and his air as ill-tempered 
as I could wish. Carford’s manner was subdued, 
calm, and sympathetic. They were talking ear- 
nestly as I entered, but ceased their conversation at 
once. I offered my services. 

‘‘I have no need of you this morning, Simon,” 
198 


THE MEED OF CURIOSITY 


answered the Duke. “I’m engaged with Lord 
Carford.” 

I retired. But of a truth that morning every one 
in the Castle was engaged with someone else. At 
every turn I came on couples in anxious consulta- 
tion. The approach of an intruder brought imme- 
diate silence, the barest civility delayed him, his 
departure was received gladly and was signal for 
renewed consultation. Well, the King sets the 
mode, and the King, I heard, was closeted with 
Madame and the Duke of York. 

But not with M. de Perrencourt. There was a 
hundred feet of the wall, with a guard at one end 
and a guard at the other, and mid-way between 
them a solitary figure stood looking down on Dover 
town and thence out to sea. In an instant I rec- 
ognised him, and a great desire came over me to 
speak to him. He was the foremost man alive in 
that day, and I longed to speak with him. To have 
known the great is to have tasted the true flavour 
of your times. But how to pass the sentries? 
Their presence meant that M. de Perrencourt de- 
sired privacy. I stepped up to one and offered to 
pass. He barred the way. 

“ But I’m in the service of his Grace the Duke 
of Monmouth,” I expostulated. 

“ If you were in the service of the devil himself 
you couldn’t pass here without the King’s order,” 
retorted the fellow. 

“Won’t his head serve as well as his order ? ” I 
asked, slipping a crown into his hand. “ Come, 
I’ve a message from his Grace for the French gen- 
tleman. Yes, it’s private. Deuce take it, do fa- 
thers always know of their sons’ doings ? ” 

“No, nor sons all their fathers’ sometimes,” he 
199 


SIMON DALE 


chuckled. “Along with you quick, and run if you 
hear me whistle ; it will mean my officer is coming.” 

I was alone in the sacred space with M. de Per- 
rencourt. I assumed an easy air and sauntered 
along, till I was within a few yards of him. Hear- 
ing my step then, he looked round with a start and 
asked peremptorily, 

“ What’s your desire, sir ? ” 

By an avowal of himself, even by quoting the 
King’s order, he could banish me. But if his cue 
were concealment and ignorance of the order, why, 
I might indulge my curiosity. 

“Like your own, sir,” I replied courteously, “a 
breath of fresh air and a sight of the sea.” 

He frowned a little, but I gave him no time to 
speak. 

“That fellow though,” I pursued, “gave me to 
understand that none might pass ; yet the King is 
not here, is he ? ” 

“ Then how did you pass, sir ? ” asked M. de 
Perrencourt, ignoring my last question. 

“Why, with a lie, sir,” I answered. “I said I had 
a message for you from the Duke of Monmouth, 
and the fool believed me. But we gentlemen in at- 
tendance must stand by one another. You’ll not 
betray me ? Your word on it ? ” 

A slow smile broke across his face. 

“No, I ’ll not betray you, ’ ’ said he. “ You speak 
French well, sir.” 

“So M. de Fontelles, whom I met at Canter- 
bury, told me. Do you chance to know him, sir ? ” 

M. de Perrencourt did not start now ; I should 
have been disappointed if he had. 

“ Very well,” he answered. “ If you’re his friend, 
you’re mine.” He held out his hand. 

200 


THE MEED OF CURIOSITY 


“ I take it on false pretences,” said I with a laugh, 
as I shook it. “ For we came near to quarrelling, 
M. de Fontelles and I.” 

“ Ah, on what point ? ” 

“ A nothing, sir.” 

“ Nay, but tell me.” 

“ Indeed I will not, if you’ll pardon me.” 

‘‘ Sir, I wish to know. I ins — I beg.” A stare 
from me had stopped the ‘ ‘ insist ” when it was half- 
way through his lips. On my soul, he flushed ! I 
tell my children sometimes how I made him flush ; 
the thing was not done often. Yet his confusion 
was but momentary, and suddenly, I know not 
how, I in my turn became abashed with the cold 
stare of his eyes, and when he asked me my name, 
I answered boldly, with never a bow and never a 
flourish, “ Simon Dale.” 

‘‘ I have heard your name,” said he gravely. 
Then he turned round and began looking at the sea 
again. 

Now, had he been wearing his own clothes (if I 
may so say) this conduct would have been appro- 
priate enough : it would have been a dismissal and I 
should have passed on my way. But a man should 
be consistent in his disguises, and from M. de Per- 
rencourt, gentleman-in- waiting, the behaviour was 
mighty uncivil. Yet my revenge must be indirect. 

“Is it true, sir,” I asked, coming close to him, 
“ that the King of France is yonder at Calais ? So 
it’s said.” 

“ I believe it to be true,” answered M. de Perren- 
court. 

“ I wish he had come over,” I cried. “ I should 
love to see him, for they say he’s a very proper 
man, although he’s somewhat short.” 

201 


SIMON DALE 


M. de Perrencourt did not turn his head, but 
again I saw his cheek flush. To speak of his low 
stature was, I had heard Monmouth say, to com- 
mit the most dire offence in King Louis’ eyes. 

“ Now, how tall is the King, sir ? ” I asked. “ Is 
he tall as you, sir ? ” 

M. de Perrencourt was still silent. To tell the 
truth, I began to be a little uneasy; there were 
cells under the Castle, and I had need to be at 
large for the coming few days. 

“ For,” said I, “ they teU such lies concerning 
princes.” 

Now he turned towards me, saying. 

There you’re right, sir. The King of France 
is of middle size, about my own height.” 

For the life of me I could not resist it. I said 
nothing with my tongue, but for a moment I 
allowed my eyes to say, “ But then you’re short, 
sir.” He understood, and for the third time he 
flushed. 

“ I thought as much,” said I, and with a bow I 
began to walk on. 

But, as ill-luck would have it, I was not to come 
clear off* from my indiscretion. In a moment I 
should have been out of sight. But as I started I 
saw a gentleman pass the guard, who stood at the 
salute. It was the King; escape was impossible. 
He walked straight up to me, bowing carelessly in 
response to M. de Perrencourt ’s deferential inclina- 
tion of his person. 

“ How come you here, Mr. Dale ? ” he asked 
abruptly. “ The guard tells me that he informed 
you of my orders and that you insisted on passing.” 

M. de Perrencourt felt that his turn was come ; 
he stood there smiling. I found nothing to say ; 

202 


THE MEED OF CURIOSITY 


if I repeated my fiction of a message, the French 
gentleman, justly enraged, would betray me. 

“ M. de Perrencourt seemed lonely, sir,” I 
answered at last. 

“A little loneliness hurts no man,” said the 
King. He took out his tablets and began to write. 
When he was done, he gave me the message, add- 
ing “ Read it.” I read, “ Mr. Simon Dale will re- 
main under arrest in his own apartment for twenty- 
four hours, and will not leave it except by the 
express command of the King.” I made a wry 
face. 

“ If the Duke of Monmouth wants me ” I 

began. 

“ He’ll have to do without you, Mr. Dale,” inter- 
rupted the King. “ Come, M. de Perrencourt, 
will you give me your arm ? ” And off he went 
on the French gentleman’s arm, leaving me most 
utterly abashed, and cursing the curiosity that had 
brought me to this trouble. 

“ So much for the Duke of Buckingham’s ‘ long 
head,’ ” said I to myself ruefully, as I made my way 
towards the Constable’s Tower, in which his Grace 
was lodged, and where I had my small quarters. 

Indeed, I might well feel a fool ; for the next 
twenty- four hours, during which I was to be a 
prisoner, would in all likelihood see the issue in 
which I was pledged to bear a part. Now I could 
do nothing. Yet at least I must send speedy word 
to the town that I was no longer to be looked to 
for any help, and when I reached my room I called 
loudly for Jonah Wall. It was but the middle of 
the day, yet he was not to be seen. I walked to 
the door and found, not Jonah, but a guard on 
duty. 


203 


SIMON DALE 


“ What are you doing here ? ” 

“Seeing that you stay here, sir,” he answered, 
with a grin. 

Then the King was very anxious that I should 
obey his orders, and had lost no time in ensuring 
my obedience ; he was right to take his measures, 
for, standing where I did, his orders would not have 
restrained me. I was glad that he had set a guard 
on me in lieu of asking my parole. For much as 
I love sin, I hate temptation. Yet where was Jonah 
W all, and how could I send my message ? I flung 
myself on the bed in deep despondency. A moment 
later the door opened, and Robert, Darrells serv- 
ant, entered. 

“ My master begs to know if you will sup with 
him to-night, sir.” 

“Thank him kindly,” said I; “but if you ask 
that gentleman outside, Robert, he’ll tell you that 
I must sup at home by the King’s desire. I’m 
under arrest, Robert.” 

“My master will be grieved to hear it, sir, and 
the more because he hoped that you would bring 
some wine wdth you, for he has none, and he has 
guests to sup with him.” 

“ Ah, an interested invitation ! How did Mr. 
Darrell know that I had wine ? ” 

“Your servant Jonah spoke of it to me, sir, and 
said that you would be glad to send my master 
some.” 

“ Jonah is liberal ! But I’m glad, and assure 
Mr. Darrell of it. Where is my rascal ? ” 

“ I saw him leave the Castle about an hour ago ; 
just after he spoke to me about the wine.” 

“Curse him! I wanted him. Well, take the 
wine. There are six bottles that he got to-day.” 

204 


THE MEED OF CURIOSITY 


“There is French wine here, sir, and Spanish. 
May I take either ? ” 

“ Take the French in God’s name. I don’t want 
that. I’ve had enough of France. Stay, though, 
I believe Mr. Darrell likes the Spanish better.” 

“ Yes, sir ; but his guests will like the French.” 

“ And who are these guests ? ” 

Robert swelled with pride. 

“ I thought Jonah would have told you, sir,” said 
he. “ The King is to sup with my master.” 

“ Then, ” said I, ‘ ‘ I’m well excused. F or no man 
knows better than the King why I can’t come.” 

The fellow took his bottles and went off grinning. 
I, being left, fell again to cursing myself for a fool, 
and in this occupation I passed the hours of the 
afternoon. 


14 


205 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE KING’S CUP 

At least the Vicar would be pleased ! A whimsical 
joy in the anticipation of his delight shot across 
my gloomy meditations as the sunset rays threaded 
their way through the narrow window of the cham- 
ber that was my cell. The thought of him stayed 
with me, amusing my idleness and entertaining my 
fancy. I could imagine his wise, contented nod, 
far from surprise as the poles are apart, full of self- 
approval as an egg of meat. For his vision had 
been clear, in him faith had never wavered. Of a 
truth, the prophecy which old Betty Nasroth spoke 
(foolishness though it were) was, through Fortune’s 
freak, two parts fulfilled. What remained might 
rest unjustified to my great content; small comfort 
had I won from so much as had come to pass. I 
had loved where the King loved, and my youth, 
though it raised its head again, still reeled under 
the blow; I knew what the King hid — ay, it 
might be more than one thing that he hid; my 
knowledge landed me where I lay now, in close 
confinement with a gaoler at my door. For my 
own choice, I would crave the Vicar’s pardon, 
would compound with destiny, and, taking the pro- 
portion of fate’s gifts already dealt to me in lieu of 
all, would go in peace to humbler doings, beneath 
the dignity of dark prophecy, but more fit to give 
a man quiet days and comfort in his life. Indeed, 
as my lord Quinton had said long ago, there was 
206 


THE KING’S CUP 


strange wine in the King’s cup, and I had no desire 
to drink of it. Yet who would not have been 
moved by the strange working of events which 
made the old woman’s prophecy seem the true read- 
ing of a future beyond guess or reasonable forecast ? 
I jeered and snarled at myself, at Betty, at her 
prophecy, at the Vicar’s credulity. But the notion 
would not be expelled; two parts stood accom- 
plished, but the third remained. “Glamis thou 
art, and Cawdor, and shalt be what thou art prom- 
ised ! ” — I forget how it runs on, for it is long since 
I saw the play, though I make bold to think that 
it is well enough written. Alas, no good came of 
listening to witches there, if my memory holds the 
story of the piece rightly. 

There is little profit, and less entertainment, in 
the record of my angry desponding thoughts. Now 
I lay like a log, again I ranged the cell as a beast 
his cage. I cared not a stiver for Buckingham’s 
schemes, I paid small heed to Nell’s jealousy. It 
was nought to me who should be the King’s next 
favourite, and although I, with all other honest 
men, hated a Popish King, the fear of him would 
not have kept me from my sleep or from my supper. 
Who eats his dinner the less though a kingdom 
fall ? To take a young man’s appetite away, and 
keep his eyes open o’ nights, needs a nearer touch 
than that. But I had on me a horror of what was 
being done in this place ; they sold a lady’s honour 
there, throwing it in for a make- weight in their bar- 
gain. I would have dashed the scales from their 
hands, but I was helpless. There is the truth : a 
man need not be ashamed for having had a trifle of 
honesty about him when he was young. And if my 
honesty had the backing of something else that I 
207 


SIMON DALE 


myself knew not yet, why, for honesty’s good 
safety, God send it such backing always ! Without 
some such aid, it is too often brought to terms and 
sings small in the end. 

The evening grew late and darkness had fallen. 
I turned again to my supper and contrived to eat 
and to drink a glass or two of wine. Suddenly I 
remembered Jonah Wall, and sent a curse after the 
negligent fellow, wherever he might be, determining 
that next morning he should take his choice be- 
tween a drubbing and dismissal. Then I stretched 
myself again on the pallet, resolute to see whether 
a man could will himself asleep. But I had hardly 
closed my eyes when I opened them again and 
started up, leaning on my elbow. There was some- 
body in conversation with my gaoler. The confer- 
ence was brief. 

“ Here’s the King’s order,” I heard, in a haughty, 
careless tone. “ Open the door, fellow, and be 
quick.” 

The door was flung open. I sprang to my feet 
with a bow. The Duke of Buckingham stood be- 
fore me, surveying my person (in truth, my state 
was very dishevelled) and my quarters with super- 
cilious amusement. There was one chair, and I set 
it for him; he sat down, pulling off his lace-trimmed 
gloves. 

“ You are the gentleman I wanted ? ” he asked. 

“ I have reason to suppose so, your Grace,” I 
answered. 

“Good,” said he. “The Duke of Monmouth 
and I have spoken to the King on your behalf.” 

I bowed grateful acknowledgments. 

“You are free,” he continued, to my joy. “You’ll 
leave the castle in two hours,” he added, to my con- 
208 


THE KING’S CUP 


sternation. But he appeared to perceive neither 
effect of his words. ‘‘ Those are the King’s orders,” 
he ended composedly. 

“ But,” I cried, ‘‘ if I leave the Castle how can I 
fulfil your Grace’s desire ? ” 

“ I said those were the King’s orders. I have 
something to add to them. Here, I have written 
it down, that you may understand and not forget. 
Your lantern there gives a poor light, but your eyes 
are young. Read what is written, sir.” 

I took the paper that he handed me and read : 

“ In two hours' time be at Cannonsgate. The 
gate will be open. Two serving men will be there 
with two horses. A lady will be conducted to the 
gate and delivered into your charge. You will ride 
with her as speedily as possible to Deal. You will 
call her your sister, if need arise to speak of her. 
Go to the hostelry of the Merry Mariners in Deal, 
and there await a gentleman who will come in the 
morning and hand you fifty guineas in gold. De- 
liver the lady to this gentleman, return imme- 
diately to London, and he in safe hiding till word 
reaches you from me.” 

I read and turned to him in amazement. 

“ Well,” he asked, “isn’t it plain enough ? ” 

“ The lady I can guess,” I answered, “ but I pray 
your Grace to tell me who is the gentleman.” 

“ What need is there for you to know? Do you 
think that more than one will seek you at the Merry 
Mariners’ Tavern and pray your acceptance of fifty 
guineas ? ” 

‘‘ But I should like to know who this one is ? ” 

“ You’ll know when you see him.” 

“ With respect to your Grace, this is not enough 
to tell me.” 


209 


SIMON DALE 


“ You can’t be told more, sir.” 

‘‘Then I won’t go.” 

He frowned and beat his gloves on his thigh 
impatiently. 

“ A gentleman, your Grace,” said I, “ must be 
trusted, or he cannot serve.” 

He looked round the little cell and asked signifi- 
cantly, 

“ Is your state such as to entitle you to make con- 
ditions ? ” 

“ Only if your Grace has need of services which 
I can give or refuse, ” I answered, bowing. 

His irritation suddenly vanished, or seemed to 
vanish. He leant back in his chair and laughed. 

“ Yet all the time,” said he, “ you’ve guessed the 
gentleman ! Isn’t it so ? Come, Mr. Dale, we un- 
derstand one another. This service, if all goes well, 
is simple. But if you’re interrupted in leaving the 
Castle, you must use your sword. W ell, if you use 
your sword and don’t prove victorious, you may be 
taken. If you’re taken it will be best for us all that 
you shouldn’t know the name of this gentleman, and 
best for him and for me that I should not have 
mentioned it.” 

The little doubt I had harboured was gone. 
Buckingham and Monmouth were hand in hand. 
Buckingham’s object was political, Monmouth was 
to find his reward in the prize that I was to rescue 
from the clutches of M. de Perrencourt and hand 
over to him at the hostelry in Deal. If success at- 
tended the attempt, I was to disappear ; if it failed, 
my name and I were to be the shield and bear the 
brunt. The reward was fifty guineas, and perhaps 
a serviceable gratitude in the minds of two great 
men, provided I lived to enjoy the fruit of it. 

210 


THE KING’S CUP 


“ You’ll accept this task ? ” asked the Duke. 

The task was to thwart M. de Perrencourt and 
gratify the Duke of Monmouth. If I refused it, 
another might accept and accomplish it ; if such a 
champion failed, M. de Perrencourt would triumph. 
If I accepted, I should accept in the fixed intention 
of playing traitor to one of my employers. I might 
serve Buckingham’s turn, I should seek to thwart 
Monmouth. 

“ Who pays me fifty guineas ? ” I asked. 

“ Faith, I,” he answered with a shrug. “ Young 
Monmout his enough his father’s son to have his 
pockets always empty.” 

On this excuse I settled my point of casuistry in 
an instant. 

“ Then I’ll carry the lady away from the Castle,” 
I cried. 

He started, leant forward, and looked hard in my 
face. “ What do you mean, what do you know ? ” 
he asked plainly enough, although silently. But I 
had cried out with an appearance of zeal and inno- 
cence that baffled his curiosity, and my guileless ex- 
pression gave his suspicions no food. Perhaps, too, 
he had no wish to enquire. There was little love 
between him and Monmouth, for he had been bit- 
terly offended by the honours and precedence as- 
signed to the Duke ; only a momentary coincidence 
of interest bound them together in this scheme. If 
the part that concerned Buckingham were accom- 
plished he would not break his heart on account of 
the lady not being ready for Monmouth at the hos- 
telry of the Merry Mariners. 

“ I think, then, that we understand one another, 
Mr. Dale ? ” said he, rising. 

“Well enough, your Grace,” I answered with 
211 


SIMON DALE 

a bow, and I rapped on the door. The gaoler 
opened it. 

“ Mr. Dale is free to go where he will within the 
Castle. You can return to your quarters,” said 
Buckingham. 

The soldier marched off. Buckingham turned to 
me. 

“Good fortune in your enterprise,” he said. 
“ And I give you joy on your liberty.” 

The words were not out of his mouth when a 
lieutenant and two men appeared, approaching us 
at a rapid walk, nay, almost at a run. They made 
directly for us, the Duke and I both watching 
them. The officer’s sword was drawn in his hand, 
their daggers were fixed in the muzzles of the sol- 
diers’ muskets. 

“ What’s happened now ? ” asked Buckingham in 
a whisper. 

The answer was not long in coming. The lieu- 
tenant halted before us, crying, 

“ In the King’s name, I arrest you, sir.” 

“ On my soul, you’ve a habit of being arrested, 
sir,” said the Duke sharply. “What’s the cause 
this time ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” I answered ; and I asked the 
officer, “ On what account, sir ? ” 

“ The King’s orders,” he answered curtly. “ You 
must come with me at once.” At a sign from him 
his men took their stand on either side of me. 
Verily, my liberty had been short ! “ I must warn 

you that we shall stand at nothing if you try to es- 
cape,” said the officer sternly. 

“ I’m not a fool, sir,” I answered. “ Where are 
you going to take me ? ” 

“ Where my orders direct.” 

212 


THE KING’S CUP 


“Come, come,” interrupted Buckingham impa- 
tiently, ‘ ‘ not so much mystery. Y ou know me ? 
Well, this gentleman is my friend and I desire to 
know where you take him.” 

“ I crave your Grace’s pardon, but I must not 
answer. ” 

“Then I’ll follow you and discover,” cried the 
Duke angrily. 

“At your Grace’s peril,” answered the officer 
firmly. “ If you insist, I must leave one of my 
men to detain you here. Mr. Dale must go alone 
with me.” 

Wrath and wonder were eloquent on the proud 
Duke’s face. In me this new misadventure bred a 
species of resignation. I smiled at him, as I said, 

“ My business with your Grace must wait, it 
seems.” 

“ Forward, sir,” cried the officer impatiently, and 
I was marched off at a round pace, Buckingham not 
attempting to follow, but turning back in the direc- 
tion of the Duke of Monmouth’s quarters. The 
confederates must seek a new instrument now ; if 
their purpose were to thwart the King’s wishes, 
they might not find what they wanted again so 
easily. 

I was conducted straight and quickly to the keep, 
and passed up the steps that led to the corridor in 
which the King was lodged. They hurried me along, 
and I had time to notice nothing until I came to a 
door near the end of the building, on the western 
side. Here I found Darrell, apparently on guard, 
for his sword was drawn and a pistol in his left 
hand. 

“ Here, sir, is Mr. Dale,” said my conductor. 

“ Good,” answered Darrell briefly. I saw that 
213 


SIMON DALE 


his face was very pale, and he accorded me not 
the least sign of recognition. “ Is he armed ? ” he 
asked. 

“You see I have no weapons, Mr. Darrell,” said 
I stiffly. 

“ Search him,” commanded Darrell, ignoring me 
utterly. 

I grew hot and angry. The soldiers obeyed the 
order. I fixed my eyes on Darrell, but he would 
not meet my gaze ; the point of his sword tapped 
the fioor on which it rested, for his hand was shak- 
ing like a leaf. 

“There’s no weapon on him,” announced the 
officer. 

“ Very well. Leave him with me, sir, and retire 
with your men to the foot of the steps. If you 
hear a whistle, return as quickly as possible.” 

The officer bowed, turned about, and departed, 
followed by his men. Darrell and I stood facing 
one another for a moment. 

“ In hell’s name, what’s the meaning of this, Dar- 
rell ? ” I cried. “ Has Madame brought the Bastille 
over with her, and are you made Governor ? ” 

He answered not a word. Keeping his sword 
still in readiness, he knocked with the muzzle of his 
pistol on the door by him. After a moment it was 
opened, and a head looked out. The face was Sir 
Thomas Clifford’s ; the door was flung wide, a gest- 
ure from Darrell bade me enter. I stepped in, he 
followed, and the door was instantly shut close be- 
hind us. 

I shall not readily forget the view disclosed to me 
by the flaring oil lamps hung in sconces to the 
ancient smoky walls. I was in a narrow room, low 
and not large, scantily furnished with faded richness, 
214 


THE KING’S CUP 


and hung to half its height with mouldering tapes- 
tries. The floor was bare, and uneven from time 
and use. In the middle of the room was a long 
table of polished oak wood ; in the centre of it sat 
the King, on his left was the Duchess of Orleans, 
and beyond her the Duke of York ; on the King’s 
right at the end of the table was an empty chair; 
Clifford moved towards it now and took his seat; 
next to him was Arlington, then Colbert de Croissy, 
the Special Envoy of the French King. Next to 
our King was another empty chair, an arm-chair, 
like the King’s ; empty it was, but M. de Perren- 
court leant easily over the back of it, with his eyes 
fixed on me. On the table were materials for writ- 
ing, and a large sheet of paper faced the King — or 
M. de Perrencourt; it seemed just between them. 
There was nothing else on the table except a bottle 
of wine and two cups ; one was full to the brim, 
while the liquor in the other fell short of the top of 
the glass by a quarter of an inch. All present were 
silent ; save M. de Perrencourt, all seemed disturbed ; 
the King’s swarthy face appeared rather pale than 
swarthy, and his hand rapped nervously on the ta- 
ble. All this I saw, while Darrell stood rigidly by 
me, sword in hand. 

Madame was the first to speak ; her delicate, sub- 
tle face lit up with recognition. 

“ Why, I have spoken with this gentlemen,” she 
said in a low voice. 

“ And I also,” said M. de Perrencourt under his 
breath. 

I think he hardly knew that he spoke, for the 
words seemed the merest unconscious outcome of 
his thoughts. 

The King raised his hand, as though to impose 
215 


SIMON DALE 


silence. Madame bowed in apologetic submission, 
M. de Perrencourt took no heed of the gesture, 
although he did not speak again. A moment later 
he laid his hand on Colbert’s shoulder and whis- 
pered to him. I thought I heard just a word — it 
was “ Fontelles.” Colbert looked up and nodded. 
M. de Perrencourt folded his arms on the back of 
the chair, and his face resumed its impassivity. 

Another moment elapsed before the King spoke. 
His voice was calm, but there seemed still to echo 
in it a trace of some violent emotion newly passed ; 
a slight smile curved his lips, but there was more 
malice than mirth in it. 

“ Mr. Dale,” said he, ‘‘ the gentleman who stands 
by you once beguiled an idle minute for me by 
telling me of a certain strange prophecy made con- 
cerning you which he had, he said, from your own 
lips, and in which my name — or at least some 
King’s name — and yours were quaintly coupled. 
You know what I refer to ? ” 

I bowed low, wondering what in Heaven’s name 
he would be at. It was, no doubt, high folly to 
love Mistress Gwyn, but scarcely high treason. 
Besides, had not I repented and forsworn her? 
Ah, but the second member of the prophecy ? I 
glanced eagerly at M. de Perrencourt, eagerly at 
the paper before the King. There were lines on 
the paper, but I could not read them, and M. de 
Perrencourt’s face was fully as baffling. 

“ If I remember rightly,” pursued the King, after 
listening to a whispered sentence from his sister, 
“ the prediction foretold that you should drink of 
my cup. Is it not so ? ” 

“ It was so. Sir, although what your Majesty 
quotes was the end, not the beginning of it.” 

216 


THE KING’S CUP 


For an instant a smile glimmered on the King’s 
face ; it was gone and he proceeded gravely. 

‘‘ I am concerned only with that part of it. I 
love prophecies and I love to see them fulfilled. 
You see that cup there, the one that is not quite 
full. That cup of wine was poured out for me, 
the other for my friend M. de Perrencourt. I 
pray you, drink of my cup and let the prophecy 
stand fulfilled.” 

In honest truth I began to think that the King 
had drunk other cups before and left them not so 
full. Yet he looked sober enough, and the rest 
were grave and mute. What masquerade was 
this, to bring me under guard and threat of death 
to drink a cup of wine ? I would have drunk a 
dozen of my free will, for the asking. 

“ Your Majesty desires me to drink that cup of 
wine ? ” I asked. 

‘‘ If you please, sir ; the cup that was poured out 
for me.” 

“ With all my heart,” I cried, and, remembering 
my manners, I added, ‘‘ and with most dutiful 
thanks to Your Majesty for this signal honour.” 

A stir, hardly to be seen, yet certain, ran round 
the table. Madame stretched out a hand towards 
the cup as though with a sudden impulse to seize 
it ; the King caught her hand and held it prisoner. 
M. de Perrencourt suddenly dragged his chair back 
and, passing in front of it, stood close over the 
table. Colbert looked up at him, but his eyes 
were fixed on me, and the Envoy went unnoticed. 

“ Then come and take it,” said the King. 

I advanced, after a low bow. Darrell, to my 
fresh wonder, kept pace with me, and when I 
reached the table was still at my side. Before I 
217 


SIMON DALE 


could move his sword might be through me or the 
ball from his pistol in my brains. The strange 
scene began to intoxicate me, its stirring sugges- 
tion mounting to my head like fumes of wine. I 
seized the cup and held it high in my hand. I 
looked down in the King’s face, and thence to 
Madame’s ; to her I bowed low and cried : 

“ By His Majesty’s permission I wiU drain this 
cup to the honour of the fairest and most illustri- 
ous Princess, Madame the Duchess of Orleans.” 

The Duchess half-rose from her seat, crying in a 
loud whisper, “Not to me, no, no! I can’t have 
him drink it to me.” 

The King still held her hand. 

“Drink it to me, Mr. Dale,” said he. 

I bowed to him and put the cup to my lips. I 
was in the act to drink, when M. de Perrencourt 
spoke. 

“A moment, sir,” he said calmly. “Have I 
the King’s permission to tell Mr. Dale a secret 
concerning this wine ? ” 

The Duke of York looked up with a frown, the 
King turned to M. de Perrencourt as if in doubt, 
the Frenchman met his glance and nodded. 

“ M. de Perrencourt is our guest,” said the King. 
“ He must do as he will.” 

M. de Perrencourt, having thus obtained per- 
mission (when was his will denied him ?), leant one 
hand on the table and, bending across towards me, 
said in slow, calm, yet impressive tones : 

“ The King, sir, was wearied with business and 
parched with talking ; of his goodness he detected 
in me the same condition. So he bade my good 
friend and his good subject Mr. Darrell furnish him 
with a bottle of wine, and Mr. Darrell brought a 
218 


THE KING’S CUP 


bottle, saying that the King’s cellar was shut and 
the cellarman in bed, but praying the King to 
honour him by drinking his wine, which was good 
French wine, such as the King loved and such as 
he hoped to put before His Majesty at supper 
presently. Then His Majesty asked whence it 
came, and Mr. Darrell answered that he was in- 
debted for it to his good friend Mr. Simon Dale, 
who would be honoured by the King’s drinking it.” 

“ Why, it’s my own wine then ! ” I cried, smil- 
ing now. 

“ He spoke the truth, did he ? ” pursued M. de 
Perrencourt composedly. ‘‘It is your wine, sent 
by you to Mr. Darrell ? ” 

“Even so, sir,” I answered. “Mr. Darrell’s 
wine was out, and I sent him some bottles of wine 
by his servant.” 

“ You knew for what he needed it ? ” 

I had forgotten for the moment what Robert 
said, and hesitated in my answer. M. de Perren- 
court looked intently at me. 

“I think,” said I, “that Robert told me Mr. 
Darrell expected the King to sup with him.” 

“ He told you that ? ” he asked sharply. 

“ Yes, I remember that,” said I, now thorough- 
ly bewildered by the history and the catechism 
which seemed necessary to an act so simple as 
drinking a glass of my own wine. 

M. de Perrencourt said nothing more, but his 
eyes were still set on my face with a puzzled, 
searching expression. His glance confused me, 
and I looked round the table. Often at sueh mo- 
ments the merest trifles catch our attention, and 
now for the first time I observed that a little of 
the wine had been spilt on the polished oak of the 
219 


SIMON DALE 


table; where it had fallen the bright surface seemed 
rusted to dull brown. I noticed the change, and 
wondered for an idle second how it came that wine 
turned a polished table dull. The thing was driven 
from my head the next moment by a brief and 
harsh order from the King. 

“ Drink, sir, drink.” 

Strained with excitement, I started at the order, 
and slopped some of the wine from the cup on my 
hand. I felt a strange burning where it fell; but 
again the King cried, “ Drink, sir.” 

I hesitated no more. Recalling my wandering 
wits and determining to play my part in the com- 
edy, whatever it might mean, I bowed, cried “ God 
save your Majesty,” and raised the cup to my lips. 
As it touched them, I saw Madame hide her eyes 
with her hand and M. de Perrencourt lean farther 
across the table, while a short, quick gasp of breath 
came from where Darrell stood by my side. 

I knew how to take off a bumper of wine. No 
sippings and swallowings for me ! I laid my 
tongue well down in the bottom of my mouth 
that the liquor might have fair passage to my gul- 
let, and threw my head back as you see a hen do 
(in thanks to heaven, they say, though she drinks 
only water). Then I tilted the cup and my mouth 
was full of the wine. I was conscious of a taste in 
it, a strange, acrid taste. Why, it was poor wine, 
turned sour; it should go back to-morrow; that 
fool Jonah was a fool in all things; and I stood 
disgraced for offering this acrid stuff to a friend. 
And he gave it to the King ! It was the cruellest 
chance. Why 

Suddenly, when I had gulped down but one good 
mouthful, I saw M. de Perrencourt lean right 
across the table. Yet I saw him dimly, for my 
220 


THE KING’S CUP 


eyes seemed to grow glazed and the room to spin 
round me, the figures at the table taking strange 
shapes and weird dim faces, and a singing sounding 
in my ears, as though the sea roared there and not 
on Dover beach. There was a woman’s cry, and a 
man’s arm shot out at me. I felt a sharp blow on 
my wrist, the cup was dashed from my hand on to 
the stone floor, breaking into ten thousand pieces, 
while the wine made a puddle at my feet. I stood 
there for an instant, struck motionless, glaring into 
the face that was opposite to mine. It was M. de 
Perrencourt’s, no longer calm, but pale and twitch- 
ing. This was the last thing I saw clearly. The 
King and his companions were fused in a shifting 
mass of trunks and faces, the walls raced round, 
the singing of the sea roared and fretted in my 
ears. I caught my hand to my brow and stag- 
gered ; I could not stand, I heard a clatter as 
though of a sword falling to the floor, arms were 
stretched out to receive me and I sank into them, 
hearing a murmur close by me, “ Simon, Simon ! ” 

Yet one thing more I heard, before my senses 
left me — a loud, proud, imperious voice, the voice 
that speaks to be obeyed, whose assertion brooks no 
contradiction. It rang in my ears where nothing 
else could reach them, and even then I knew 
whence it came. The voice was the voice of M. 
de Perrencourt, and it seemed that he spoke to the 
King of England. 

“Brother,” he cried, “by my faith in God, this 
gentleman is innocent, and his life is on our heads, 
if he lose it.” 

I heard no more. Stupor veiled me round in an 
impenetrable mist. The figures vanished, the tu- 
multuous singing ceased. A great silence encom- 
passed me, and all was gone. 

15 221 


CHAPTER XV 


M. DE PERRENCOURT WHISPERS 

Slowly the room and the scene came back to me, 
disengaging themselves from the darkness which 
had settled on my eyes, regaining distinctness and 
their proper form. I was sitting in a chair, and 
there were wet bandages about my head. Those 
present before were there still, save M. de Perren- 
court, whose place at the table was vacant; the 
large sheet of paper and the materials for writing 
had vanished. There was a fresh group at the end, 
next to Arlington; here now sat the Dukes of 
Monmouth and Buckingham, carrying on a low 
conversation with the Secretary. The King lay 
back in his chair, frowning and regarding with se- 
vere gaze a man who stood opposite to him, almost 
where I had been when I drank of the King’s cup. 
There stood Darrell and the lieutenant of the Guards 
who had arrested me, and between them, with 
clothes torn and muddy, face scratched and stained 
with blood, with panting breath and gleaming eyes, 
firmly held by either arm, was Phineas Tate the 
Ranter. They had sent and caught him then, 
while 1 lay unconscious. But what led them to 
suspect him? 

There was the voice of a man speaking from the 
other side of this party of three. I could not see 
him, for their bodies came between, but I recog- 
nised the tones of Robert, Darrell’s servant. It 
was he, then, who had put them on Jonah’s track, 
222 


M. DE PERRENCOURT WHISPERS 


and, in following that, they must have come on 
Phineas. 

“We found the two together,” he was saying, 
“ this man and Mr. Dale’s servant who had brought 
the wine from the town. Both were armed with 
pistols and daggers, and seemed ready to meet an 
attack. In the alley in front of the house that I 
have named ” 

“ Yes, yes, enough of the house,” interrupted the 
King impatiently. 

“In the alley there were two horses ready. We 
attacked the men at once, the lieutenant and I 
making for this one here, the two with us striving 
to secure Jonah Wall. This man struggled des- 
perately, but seemed ignorant of how to handle his 
weapons. Yet he gave us trouble enough, and we 
had to use him roughly. At last we had him, but 
then we found that Jonah, who fought like a wild 
cat, had wounded both the soldiers with his knife, 
and, although himself wounded, had escaped by 
the stairs. Leaving this man with the lieutenant, 
I rushed down after him, but one of the horses was 
gone, and I heard no sound of hoofs. He had got 
a start of us, and is well out of Dover by now.” 

I was straining all my attention to listen, yet my 
eyes fixed themselves on Phineas, whose head was 
thrown back defiantly. Suddenly a voice came 
from behind my chair. 

“ That man must be pursued,” said M. de Per- 
rencourt. “ Who knows that there may not be 
accomplices in this devilish plot? This man has 
planned to poison the King; the servant was his 
confederate. I say, may there not have been 
others in the wicked scheme ? ” 

“True, true,” said the King uneasily. “We 
223 


SIMON DALE 

must lay this Jonah Wall by the heels. What’s 
known of him ? ” 

Thinking the appeal was made to me, I strove 
to rise. M. de Perrencourt’s arm reached over the 
back of my chair and kept me down. I heard 
Darrell take up the story and tell what he knew — 
and it was as much as I knew — of Jonah Wall, and 
what he knew of Phineas Tate also. 

“ It is a devilish plot,” said the King, who was 
still greatly shaken and perturbed. 

Then Phineas spoke loudly, boldly, and with 
a voice full of the rapturous fanaticism which 
drowned conscience and usurped in him religion’s 
place. 

‘^Here,” he cried, ‘‘are the plots, here are the 
devilish plots ! What do you here ? Ay, what 
do you plot here? Is this man’s life more than 
God’s Truth? Is God’s Word to be lost that the 
sins and debauchery of this man may continue ? ” 

His long lean forefinger pointed at the King. A 
mute consternation fell for an instant on them all, 
and none interrupted him. They had no answer 
ready for his question ; men do not count on such 
questions being asked at Court, the manners are 
too good there. 

“ Here are the plots ! I count myself blessed to 
die in the effort to thwart them! I have failed, 
but others shall not fail ! God’s Judgment is sure. 
What do you here, Charles Stuart ? ” 

M. de Perrencourt walked suddenly and briskly 
round to where the King sat and whispered in his 
ear. The King nodded, and said : 

“ I think this fellow is mad, but it’s a dangerous 
madness.” 

Phineas did not heed him, but cried aloud, 

224 


M. DE PERRENCOURT WHISPERS 


“ And you here — are you all with him ? Are 
you all apostates from God? Are you all given 
over to the superstitions of Rome? Are you all 
here to barter God's word and ” 

The King sprang to his feet. 

“ I won’t listen,” he cried. “ Stop his cursed 
mouth. I won’t listen.” He looked round with 
fear and alarm in his eyes. I perceived his gaze 
turned towards his son and Buckingham. Follow- 
ing it, I saw their faces alight with eagerness, ex- 
citement, and curiosity. Arlington looked down 
at the table; Clifford leant his head on his hand. 
At the other end the Duke of York had sprung up 
like his brother, and was glaring angrily at the bold 
prisoner. Darrell did not wait to be bidden twice, 
but whipped a silk handkerchief from his pocket. 

“ Here and now the deed is being done ! ” cried 

Phineas. ‘‘ Here and now ” He could say no 

more; in spite of his desperate struggles, he was 
gagged and stood silent, his eyes still burning with 
the message which his lips were not suffered to 
utter. The King sank back in his seat, and cast a 
furtive glance round the table. Then he sighed, as 
though in relief, and wiped his brow. Monmouth’s 
voice came clear, careless, confident. 

‘‘ What’s this madness ? ” he asked. ‘‘ Who here 
is bartering God’s Word ? And for what, pray ?” 

No answer was given to him ; he glanced in in- 
solent amusement at Arlington and Clifford, then 
in insolent defiance at the Duke of York. 

“Is not the religion of the country safe with the 
King ? ” he asked, bowing to his father. 

“ So safe, James, that it does not need you to 
champion it,” said the King dryly ; yet his voice 
trembled a little. Phineas raised that lean fore- 
225 


SIMON DALE 


finger at him again, and pointed. “ Tie the fellow s 
arms to his side,” the King commanded in hasty 
irritation; he sighed again when the finger could 
no longer point at him, and his eyes again furtively 
sought Monmouth’s face. The young duke leant 
back with a scornful smile, and the consciousness 
of the King’s regard did not lead him to school his 
face to any more seemly expression. My wits had 
come back now, although my head ached fiercely 
and my body was full of acute pain ; but I watched 
all that passed, and I knew that, come what might, 
they would not let Phineas speak. Yet Phineas 
could know nothing. Nay, but the shafts of mad- 
ness, often wide, may once hit the mark. The 
paper that had lain between the King and M. de 
Perrencourt was hidden. 

Again the French gentleman bent and whispered 
in the King’s ear. He spoke long this time, and 
all kept silence while he spoke — Phineas because he 
must, the lieutenant with surprised eyes, the rest in 
that seeming indifference which, as I knew, masked 
their real deference. At last the King looked up, 
nodded, and smiled. His air grew calmer and more 
assured, and the trembling was gone from his voice 
as he spoke. 

“ Come, gentlemen,” said he, ‘‘while we talk this 
ruffian who has escaped us makes good pace from 
Do ver. Let the Duke of Monmouth and the Duke 
of Buckingham each take a dozen men and scour 
the country for him. I shall be greatly in the debt 
of either who brings him to me.” 

The two Dukes started. The service which the 
King demanded of them entailed an absence of 
several hours from the Castle. It might be that 
they, or one of them, would learn something from 
226 


M. DE PERRENCOURT WHISPERS 


Jonah Wall; but it was far more likely that they 
would not find him, or that he would not suffer 
himself to be taken alive. Why were they sent, 
and not a couple of the officers on duty ? But if 
the King’s object were to secure their absence, the 
scheme was well laid. I thought now that I could 
guess what M. de Perrencourt had said in that 
whispered conference. Buckingham had the dis- 
cretion to recognise when the game went against 
him. He rose at once with a bow, declaring that 
he hastened to obey the King’s command, and 
would bring the fellow in, dead or alive. Mon- 
mouth had less self-control. He rose indeed, but 
reluctantly and with a sullen frown on his hand- 
some face. 

“ It’s poor work looking for a single man over 
the countryside,” he grumbled. 

“ Your devotion to me will inspire and guide you, 
James,” observed the King. A chance of mocking 
another made him himself again as no other cure 
could. “ Come, lose no time.” Then the King 
added : “ Take this fellow away, and lock him up. 
Mr. Darrell, see that you guard him well, and let 
nobody come near him.” 

M. de Perrencourt whispered. 

“ Above all, let him speak to nobody. He must 
tell what he knows only at the right time,” added 
the King. 

“ When will that be? ” asked Monmouth, audibly, 
yet so low that the King could feign not to hear 
and smiled pleasantly at his son. But still the 
Duke lingered, although Buckingham was gone 
and Phineas Tate had been led out between his 
custodians. His eyes sought mine, and I read an 
appeal in them. That he desired to take me with 
227 


SIMON DALE 


him in pursuit of Jonah Wall, I did not think; 
but he desired above all things to get me out of 
that room, to have speech with me, to know that 
I was free to work out the scheme which Bucking- 
ham had disclosed to me. Nay, it was not unlikely 
that his search for Jonah Wall would lead him to 
the hostelry of the Merry Mariners at Deal. And 
for my plan too, which differed so little yet so much 
from his, for that also I must be free. I rose to 
my feet, delighted to find that I could stand well 
and that my pains grew no more severe with move- 
ment. 

“ I am at your Grace’s orders, ’ ’ said I. “ May 
I ride with you, sir ? ” 

The King looked at me doubtfully. 

“ I should be glad of your company,” said the 
Duke, “if your health allows.” 

“ Most fully, sir,” I answered, and turning to the 
King I begged his leave to depart. And that leave 
I should, as I think, have obtained, but for the fact 
that once again M. de Perrencourt whispered to 
the King. The King rose from his seat, took M. 
de Perrencourt’s arm and walked with him to 
where his Grace stood. I watched them, till a 
little stifled laugh caught my attention. Madame ’s 
face was merry, and hers the laugh. She saw my 
look on her and laughed again, raising her finger to 
her lips in a swift, stealthy motion. She glanced 
round apprehensively, but her action had passed 
unnoticed ; the Duke of York seemed sunk in a dull 
apathy, Clifford and Arlington were busy in con- 
versation. What did she mean ? Did she confess 
that I held their secret and impose silence on me 
by a more than royal command, by the behest of 
bright eyes and red lips which dared me to betray 
228 


M. DE PERRENCOURT WHISPERS 


their confidence? On the moment’s impulse I 
bowed assent ; Madame nodded merrily and waved 
a kiss with her dainty hand ; no word passed, but 
I felt that I, being a gentleman, could tell no man 
alive what I suspected, ay, what I knew, concern- 
ing M. de Perrencourt. Thus lightly are pledges 
given when ladies ask them. 

The Duke of Monmouth started back with a 
sudden angry motion. The King smiled at him ; 
M. de Perrencourt laid a hand, decked with rich 
rings, on his lace cuff. Madame rose, laughing 
still, and joined the three. I cannot tell what 
passed — alas, that the matters of highest interest 
are always elusive! — but a moment later Mon- 
mouth fell back with as sour a look as I have ever 
seen on a man’s face, bowed slightly and not over- 
courteously, faced round and strode through the 
doorway, opening the door for himself. I heard 
Madame’s gay laugh, again the King spoke, 
Madame cried, “ Fie, ’ ’ and hid her face with her 
hand. M. de Perrencourt advanced towards me; 
the King caught his arm. “ Pooh, he knows 
abeady,” muttered Perrencourt, half under his 
breath, but he gave way, and the King came to 
me first. 

‘‘Sir,” said he, “the Duke of Monmouth has 
had the dutiful kindness to release his claim on 
your present services, and to set you free to serve 
me.” 

I bowed very low, answering, 

“ His Grace is bountiful of kindness to me, and 
has given the greatest proof of it in enabling me to 
serve Your Majesty.” 

“My pleasure is,” pursued the King, “that you 
attach yourself to my friend M. de Perrencourt 
229 


SIMON DALE 


here, and accompany him and hold yourself at his 
disposal until further commands from me reach 
you.” 

M. de Perrencourt stepped forward and addressed 
me. 

“In two hours’ time, sir,” said he, “I beg you 
to be ready to accompany me. A ship lies yonder 
at the pier, waiting to carry His Excellency M. 
Colbert de Croissy and myself to Calais to-night on 
business of moment. Since the King gives you to 
me, I pray your company. ” 

“Till then, Mr. Dale, adieu,” said the King. 
“Not a word of what has passed here to-night to 
any man — or any woman. Be in readiness. You 
know enough, I think, to tell you that you receive 
a great honour in M. de Perrencourt’s request. 
Your discretion will show your worthiness. Kiss 
Madame ’s hand and leave us.” 

They both smiled at me, and I stood half- 
bewildered. “ Go,” said M. de Perrencourt with a 
laugh, clapping me on the shoulder. The two 
turned away. Madame held out her hand towards 
me; I bent and kissed it. 

“ Mr. Dale,” said she, “ you have all the virtues.” 

“ Alas, Madame, I fear you don’t mean to com- 
mend me.” 

“Yes, for a rarity, at least. But you have one 
vice.” 

‘ ‘ It shall be mended, if your Royal Highness 
will tell its name.” 

“Nay, I shall increase it by naming it. But 
here it is ; your eyes are too wide open, Mr. Dale.” 

“ My mother, Madame, used to accuse me of a 
trick of keeping them half-shut.” 

“Your mother had not seen you at Court, sir.” 

230 


M. DE PERRENCOURT WHISPERS 


“True, Madame, nor had my eyes beheld your 
Royal Highness.” 

She laughed, pleased with a compliment which 
was well in the mode then, though my sons may 
ridicule it ; but as she turned away she added, 

“ I shall not be with you to-night, and M. de 
Perrencourt hates a staring eye.” 

I was warned and I was grateful. But there I 
stopped. Since Heaven had given me my eyes, 
nothing on earth could prevent them opening 
when matter worth the looking was presented. 
And perhaps they might be open, and yet seem 
shut to M. de Perrencourt. With a final salute 
to the exalted company I went out; as I went 
they resumed their places at the table, M. de Per- 
rencourt saying, “ Come, let us finish. I must be 
away before dawn.” , 

I returned to my quarters in no small turmoil; 
yet my head, though it still ached sorely from the 
effect of tasting that draught so fortunately dashed 
from my hand, was clear enough, and I could put 
together all the pieces of the puzzle save one. 
But that one chanced to be of some moment to 
me, for it was myself. The business with the 
King which had brought M. de Perrencourt so 
stealthily to Dover was finished, or was even now 
being accomplished; his presence and authority 
had reinforced Madame’s persuasions, and the 
treaty was made. But in these high affairs I had 
no place. If I would find my work I must look 
elsewhere, to the struggle that had arisen between 
M. de Perrencourt and his Grace the Duke of 
Monmouth, in which the stakes were not wars or 
religions, and the quarrel of simpler nature. In 
that fight Louis (for I did not trouble to maintain 
231 


SIMON DALE 


his disguise in my thoughts) had won, as he was 
certain to win if he put forth his strength. My 
heart was sore for Mistress Barbara. I knew that 
she was to be the spoil of the French Kings 
victory, and that the loss to the beauty of his 
Court caused by the departure of Mile, de 
QuerouaiUe was to find compensation. But, still, 
where was my part ? I saw only one thing : that 
Louis had taken a liking for me, and might well 
choose me as his instrument, if an instrument were 
needed. But for what and where it was needed I 
could not conceive ; since all France was under his 
feet, and a thousand men would spring up to do 
his bidding at a word — ay, let the bidding be 
what it might, and the task as disgraceful as you 
will. What were the qualities in me or in my 
condition that dictated his choice baffled con- 
jecture. 

Suddenly came a low knock on the door. I 
opened it and a man slipped in quickly and 
covertly. To my amazement, I saw Carford. 
He had kept much out of sight lately; I sup- 
posed that he had discovered all he wanted from 
Monmouth’s ready confidence, and had carried his 
ill-won gains to his paymaster. But supposing 
that he would keep up the comedy I said stiffly, 

“ You come to me from the Duke of Monmouth, 
my lord ? ” 

He was in no mood for pretence to-night. He 
was in a state of great excitement, and, brushing 
aside all reserve, made at once for the point. 

“ I am come,” said he, “ to speak a word with 
you. In an hour you’re to sail for France ? ” 

“ Yes,’' said I. “ Those are the King’s orders.” 

But in an hour you could be so far from here 
232 


M. DE PERRENCOURT WHISPERS 

that he with whom you go could not wait for your 
return.” 

“ Well, my lord ? ” 

“ To be brief, what’s your price to fly and not to 
sail ? ” 

We were standing, facing one another. I an- 
swered him slowly, trying to catch his purpose. 

“ Why are you willing to pay me a price ? ” said 
I. “ F or it’s you who pays ? ” 

Yes, I pay. Come, man, you know why you 
go and who goes with you ? ” 

“ M. de Perrencourt and M. Colbert go,” said I. 
“ AVhy I go, I don’t know.’^ 

‘‘Nor who else goes?” he asked, looking in 
my eyes. I paused for a moment and then 
answered, 

“ Yes, she goes.” 

“ And you know for what purpose ? ’ ’ 

“ I can guess the purpose.” 

“ Well, I want to go in your place. I have done 
with that fool Monmouth, and the French King 
would suit me well for a master.” 

“ Then ask him to take you also.” 

“ He will not; he’ll rather take you.” 

“Then I’ll go,” said I. 

He drew a step nearer to me. I watched him 
closely, for, on my life, I did not know in what 
mood he was, and his honour was ill to lean on as 
a waving reed. 

“ What will you gain by going ? ” he asked. 
“And if you fly he will take me. Somebody he 
must take.” 

“ Is not M. Colbert enough ? ” 

He looked at me suspiciously, as though he 
thought that I assumed ignorance. 

233 


SIMON DALE 


“You know very well that Colbert wouldn’t 
serve his purpose.” 

“ By my feith,” I cried, “ I don’t know what his 
purpose is.” 

“ You swear it ? ” he asked in distrust and amaze- 
ment. 

“ Most willingly,” I answered. “ It is simple 
truth.” 

He gazed at me still as though but half-con- 
vinced. 

“ Then what’s your purpose in going ? ” he 
asked. 

“ I obey my orders. Yet I have a purpose, and 
one I had rather trust with myself than with you, 
my lord.” 

“ Pray, sir, what is it ? ” 

“ To serve and guard the lady who goes also.” 

After a moment of seeming surprise, he broke 
into a sneering laugh. 

“ You go to guard her ? ” he said. 

“Her and her honour,” I answered steadily. 
“ And I do not desire to resign that task into your 
hands, my lord.” 

“ What will you do ? How will you serve her ? ” 
he asked. 

A sudden suspicion of him seized me. His man- 
ner had changed to a forced urbanity ; when he was 
civil he was treacherous. 

“That’s my secret, my lord,” I answered. “I 
have preparations to make. I pray you, give me 
leave.” I opened the door and held it for him. 

His rage mastered him; he grew red and the 
veins swelled on his forehead. 

‘ ‘ By heaven, you sha’n’t go,” he cried, and clapped 
his hand to his sword. 


234 


M. DE PERRENCOURT WHISPERS 


“ Who says that Mr. Dale shall not go ? ” 

A man stood in the doorway, plainly attired, 
wearing boots, and a cloak that half-hid his face. 
Yet I knew him, and Carford knew him. Carford 
shrank back, I bowed, and we both bared our heads. 
M. de Perrencourt advanced into the room, fixing 
his eyes on Carford. 

“ My lord,” he said, “when I decline a gentle- 
man’s services I am not to be forced into accepting 
them, and when I say a gentleman shall go with 
me he goes. Have you a quarrel with me on that 
account ? ” 

Carford found no words in which to answer him, 
but his eyes told that he would have given the 
world to draw his sword against M. de Perrencourt, 
or, indeed, against the pair of us. A gesture of the 
newcomer’s arm motioned him to the door. But 
he had one sentence more to hear before he was 
suffered to slink away. 

“ Kings, my lord,” said M. de Perrencourt, “ may 
be compelled to set spies about the persons of 
others. They do not need them about their own.” 

Carford turned suddenly white, and his teeth set. 
I thought that he would fly at the man who re- 
buked him so scornfully; but such an outbreak 
meant death; he controlled himself. He passed 
out, and Louis, with a careless laugh, seated him- 
self on my bed. I stood respectfully opposite to 
him. 

“ Make your preparations,” said he. “ In half an 
hour’s time we depart.” 

I obeyed him, setting about the task of filling my 
saddle-bags with my few possessions. He watched 
me in silence for awhile. At last he spoke. 

“ I have chosen you to go with me,” he said, 
235 


SIMON DALE 


“because although you know a thing, you don’t 
speak of it, and although you see a thing, you can 
appear bhnd.” 

I remembered that Madame thought my blind- 
ness deficient, but I received the compliment in 
silence. 

“These great qualities,” he pursued, “make a 
man’s fortune. You shall come with me to Paris.” 

“ To Paris, sir ?” 

“Yes. I’ll find work for you there, and those 
who do my work lack neither reward nor honour. 
Come, sir, am I not as good a king to serve as 
another ? ” 

“ Your Majesty is the greatest Prince in Christen- 
dom,” said I. For such indeed aU the world held 
him. 

“Yet even the greatest Prince in Christendom 
fears some things,” said he, smiling. 

“ Surely nothing, sir ? ” 

“Why, yes. A woman’s tongue, a woman’s 
tears, a woman’s rage, a woman’s jealousy; I say, 
Mr. Dale, a woman’s jealousy.” 

It was well that my preparations were done, or 
they had never been done. I was staring at him 
now with my hands dropped to my side. 

“ I am married,” he pursued. “ That is little.” 
And he shrugged his shoulders. 

“Little enough at Courts, in all conscience,” 
thought I ; perhaps my face betrayed something of 
the thought, for King Louis smiled. 

“But I am more than a husband,” he pursued. 
“ I am a lover, Mr. Dale.” 

Not knowing what comment to make on this, I 
made none. I had heard the talk about his infatua- 
tion, but it was not for me to mention the lady’s 
236 


M. DE PERRENCOURT WHISPERS 


name. Nor did the King name her. He rose and 
approached me, looking full in my face. 

“You are neither a husband nor a lover ? ” he 
asked. 

“Neither, sir.” 

“ You know Mistress Quinton ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

He was close to me now, and he whispered to 
me as he had whispered to the King in the Council 
Chamber. 

“ With my favour and such a lady for his wife, a 
gentleman might climb high.” 

I heard the words, and I could not repress a start. 
At last the puzzle was pieced, and my part plain. 
I knew now the work I was to do, the price of the 
reward I was to gain. Had he said it a month 
before, when I was not yet trained to self-control 
and concealment. King as he was, I would have 
drawn my sword on him. For good or evil dis- 
simulation is soon learnt. With a great effort I 
repressed my agitation and hid my disgust. King 
Louis smiled at me, deeming what he had sug- 
gested no insult. 

“Your wedding shall take place at Calais,” he 
said; and I (I wonder now to think of it) bowed 
and smiled. 

“ Be ready in a quarter of an hour,” said he, and 
left me with a gracious smile. 

I stood there where I was for the best part of 
the time still left to me. I saw why Carford de- 
sired the mission’ of which I went, why Madame 
bade me practise the closing of my eyes, how 
my fortune was to come from the hand of King 
Louis. An Enghsh gentleman and his wife would 
travel back with the King; the King would give 
16 237 


SIMON DALE 

his favour to both; and the lady was Barbara 
Quinton. 

I turned at last, and made my final preparation. 
It was simple; I loaded my pistol and hid it about 
me, and I buckled on my sword, seeing that it 
moved easily in the sheath. By fortune’s will, I 
had to redeem the pledge which I had given to my 
lord; his daughter’s honour now knew no safety 
but in my arm and wits. Alas, how slender the 
chance was, and how great the odds ! 

Then a sudden fear came upon me. I had lived 
of late in a Court where honour seemed dead, and 
women, no less than men, gave everything for 
wealth or place. I had seen nothing of her, no 
word had come from her to me. She had scorned 
Monmouth, but might she not be won to smile on 
M. de Perrencourt ? I drove the thought from me, 
but it came again and again, shaming me and yet 
fastening on me. She went with M. de Perrencourt ; 
did she go willingly ? 

With that thought beating in my brain, I stepped 
forth to my adventure. 


238 


CHAPTER XVI 


M. DE PERRENCOURT WONDERS 

As I walked briskly from my quarters down to the 
sea, M. de Perrencourt’s last whisper, “With my 
favour and such a lady for his wife, a gentleman 
might climb high,” echoed in my ears so loudly and 
insistently as to smother all thought of what had 
passed in the Council Chamber, and to make of no 
moment for me the plots and plans alike of Kings. 
Catholics, and Ranters. That night I cared little 
though the King had signed away the liberties of 
our religion and his realm ; I spared no more than 
a passing wonder for the attempt to which con- 
science run mad had urged Phineas Tate, and in 
which he in his turn had involved my simpleton of 
a servant. Let them all plot and plan ; the issue 
lay in God’s hand, above my knowledge and beyond 
my power. My task was enough, and more than 
enough, for my weakness ; to it I turned, with no 
fixed design and no lively hope, with a prayer for 
success only, and a resolve not to be King Louis’ 
catspaw. A month ago I might have marvelled 
that he offered such a part to any gentleman ; the 
illusions of youth and ignorance were melting fast ; 
now I was left to ask why he had selected one so 
humble for a plade that great men held in those days 
with open profit and without open shame; ay, 
and have held since. For although I have lived to 
call myself a Whig, I do not hold that the devil left 
England for good and all with the House of Stuart. 


SIMON DALE 


We were on the quay now, and the little ship 
lay ready for us. A very light breeze blew off the 
land, enough to carry us over if it held, but prom- 
ising a long passage ; the weather was damp and 
misty. M. Colbert had shrugged his shoulders over 
the prospect of a fog ; his master would hear of no 
delay, and the King had sent for Thomas I^ie, a 
famous pilot of the Cinque Ports, to go with us till 
the French coast should be sighted. The two 
Kings were walking up and down together in eager 
and engrossed conversation. Looking about, I per- 
ceived the figures of two women standing near the 
edge of the water. I saw Colbert approach them 
and enter into conversation ; soon he came to me, 
and with the smoothest of smiles bade me charge 
myself with the care of Mistress Quinton. 

“ Madame,” said he, “ has sent a discreet and 
trustworthy waiting- woman with her, but a lady 
needs a squire, and we are still hampered by busi- 
ness.” With which he went off to join his master, 
bestowing another significant smile on me. 

I lost no time in approaching Barbara. The 
woman with her was stout and short, having a broad 
hard face; she stood by her charge square and 
sturdy as a soldier on guard. Barbara acknowl- 
edged my salutation stiffly ; she was pale and 
seemed anxious, but in no great distress or horror. 
But did she know what was planned for her or the 
part I was to play ? The first words she spoke 
showed me that she knew nothing, for when I 
began to feel my way, saying : “ The wind is fair 
for us,” she started, crying : For us ? Why, are 
you coming with us ? ” 

I glanced at the waiting-woman, who stood 
stolidly by. 


240 


M. DE PERRENCOURT WONDERS 


“ She understands no English,” said Barbara, 
catching my meaning. You can speak freely. 
Why are you coming ? ” 

“ Nay, but why are you going? ” 

She answered me with a touch of defiance in her 
voice. 

“ The Duchess of York is to return with Madame 
on a visit to the French Court, and I go to prepare 
for her coming.” 

So this was the story by which they were in- 
ducing her to trust herself in their hands. Doubt- 
less they might have forced her, but deceit 
furnished a better way. Yet agitation had min- 
gled with defiance in her voice. In an instant she 
went on : 

“ You are coming, in truth are you ? Don’t jest 
with me.” 

“ Indeed I’m coming, Madame. I hope my com- 
pany is to your liking ? ” 

“But why, why? ” 

“ M de Perrencourt has one answer to that ques- 
tion and I another.” 

Her eyes questioned me, but she did not put 
her question into words. With a little shiver 
she said : 

“ I am glad to be quit of this place.” 

“You’re right in that,” I answered gravely. 

Her cheek flushed, and her eyes fell to the 
ground. 

“ Yes,” she murmured. 

“ But Dover Castle is not the only place where 
danger lies,” said I. 

“ Madame has sworn ” she began impetu- 

ously. 

“ And M. de Perrencourt ? ” I interrupted. 

241 


SIMON DALE 


“ He — he gave his word to his sister, ” she said 
in a very low voice. Then she stretched her hand 
out towards me, whispering, “ Simon, Simon ! ” 

I interpreted the appeal, although it was but an 
inarticulate cry, witnessing to a fear of dangers 
unknown. The woman had edged a little away, 
but still kept a careful watch. I paid no heed to 
her. I must give my warning. 

‘ ‘ My services are always at your disposal. Mis- 
tress Barbara,” said I, “ even without the right to 
them that M. de Perrencourt purposes to give you. ” 

“ I don’t understand. How can he — Why, you 
wouldn’t enter my service ? ” 

She laughed a little as she made this suggestion, 
but there was an eagerness in her voice ; my heart 
answered to it, for I saw that she found comfort in 
the thought of my company. 

“M. de Perrencourt,” said I, “purposes that I 
should enter your service, and his also.” 

“ Mine and his ? ” she murmured, puzzled and 
alarmed. 

I did not know how to tell her ; I was ashamed. 
But the last moments fled, and she must know be- 
fore we were at sea. 

“ Yonder where we’re going,” I said, “ the word 
of M. de Perrencourt is law and his pleasure right.” 

She took alarm, and her voice trembled. 

“ He has promised — Madame told me,” she stam- 
mered. “ Ah, Simon, must I go ? Yet I should 
be worse here.” 

“ You must go. What can we do here ? I go 
willingly.” 

“ For what ? ” 

“ To serve you, if it be in my power. Will you 
listen ? ” 


242 


M. DE PERRENCOURT WONDERS 


“ Quick, quick. Tell me ! ” 

“ Of all that he swore, he will observe nothing. 
Hush, don’t cry out. Nothing.” 

I feared that she would fall, for she reeled where 
she stood. I dared not support her. 

“ If he asks a strange thing, agree to it. It’s the 
only way.” 

“ What ? What will he ask ? ” 

“ He will propose a husband to you.” 

She tore at the lace wrapping about her throat 
as though it were choking her ; her eyes were fixed 
on mine. I answered her gaze with a steady re- 
gard, and her cheek grew red with a hot blush. 

“ His motive you may guess,” said I. “ There is 
convenience in a husband.” 

I had put it at last plainly enough, and when I 
had said it I averted my eyes from hers. 

“I won’t go,” I heard her gasp. '‘I’ll throw 
myself at the King’s feet.” 

“ He’ll make a clever jest on you,” said I bitterly. 

“ I’U implore M. de Perreneourt ” 

“ His answer will be — polite.” 

For a while there was silence. Then she spoke 
again in a low whisper; her voice now sounded 
hard and cold, and she stood rigid. 

Who is the man ? ” she asked. Then she broke 
into a sudden passion, and, forgetting caution, 
seized me by the arm, whispering, “ Have you 
your sword ? ” 

“ Ay, it is here.” 

“ Will you use it for me ? ” 

“ At your bidding.” 

“ Then use it on the body of the man.” 

“ I’m the man,” said I. 

“ You, Simon 1 ” 


243 


SIMON DALE 


Now what a poor thing is this writing, and how 
small a fragment of truth can it hold ! “ You, 

Simon ! ” The words are nothing, but they came 
from her lips full-charged with wonder, most in- 
credulous, yet coloured with sudden hope of deliver- 
ance. She doubted, yet she caught at the strange 
chance. Nay, there was more still, but what I 
could not tell; for her eyes lit up with a sudden 
sparkle, which shone a brief moment and then was 
screened by drooping lids. 

“ That is why I go,” said I. “ With M. de Per- 
rencourt’s favour and such a lady for my wife I 
might climb high. So whispered M. de Perren- 
court himself.” 

“ You ! ” she murmured again ; and again her 
cheek was red. 

“We must not reach Calais, if we can escape by 
the way. Be near me always on the ship, fortune 
may give us a chance. And if we come to Calais, 
be near me while you can.” 

“ But if we can’t escape ? ” 

I was puzzled by her. It must be that she found 
in my company new hope of escape. Hence came 
the light in her eyes, and the agitation which 
seemed to show excitement rather than fear. But 
I had no answer to her question, “ If we can’t 
escape ? ’ ’ 

Had I been ready with fifty answers, time would 
have failed for one. M. Colbert called to me. 
The King was embracing his guest for the last time; 
the sails were spread ; Thomas Lie was at the helm. 
I hastened to obey M. Colbert’s summons. He 
pointed to the King ; going forward, I knelt and 
kissed the hand extended to me. Then I rose and 
stood for a moment, in case it should be the King’s 
244 


M. DE PERRENCOURT WONDERS 


pleasure to address me. M. de Perrencourt was by 
his side. 

The King’s face wore a smile and the smile 
broadened as he spoke to me. 

“You’re a wilful man, Mr. Dale,” said he, “ but 
fortune is more wilful still. You would not woo 
her, therefore woman-like she loves you. You 
were stubborn, but she is resolute to overcome 
your stubbornness. But don’t try her too far. She 
stands waiting for you open-armed. Isn’t it so, my 
brother ? ” 

“Your Majesty speaks no more than truth,” 
answered M. de Perrencourt. 

“ Will you accept her embraces ? ” asked the 
King. 

I bowed very low and raised my head with a 
cheerful and gay smile. 

“ Most willingly,” I answered. 

“ And what of reservations, Mr. Dale ? ” 

“ May it please your Majesty, they do not hold 
across the water.” 

“ Good. My brother is more fortunate than I. 
God be with you, Mr. Dale.” 

At that I smiled again. And the King smiled. 
My errand was a strange one to earn a benediction. 
“ Be off with you,” he said with an impatient laugh. 
“ A man must pick his words in talking with you.” 
A gesture of his hand dismissed me. I went on 
board and watched him standing on the quay as 
Thomas Lie steered us out of harbour and laid us 
so as to catch the wind. As we moved, the King 
turned and began to mount the hill. 

We moved, but slowly. For an hour we made 
way. All this while I was alone on deck, except 
for the crew and Thomas Lie. The rest had gone 
245 


SIMON DALE 


below ; I had offered to follow, but a gesture from 
M. Colbert sent me back. The sense of helplessness 
was on me, overwhelming and bitter. When the 
time came for my part I should be sent for, until 
then none had need of me. I could guess well 
enough what was passing below, and I found no 
comfort in the knowledge of it. Up and down I 
walked quickly, as a man torn and tormented with 
thoughts that his steps, however hasty, cannot out- 
strip. The crew stared at me, the pilot himself 
spared a glance of amused wonder at the man who 
strode to and fro so restlessly. Once I paused at 
the stern of the ship, where Lie’s boat, towed be- 
hind us, cut through the water as a diamond cuts 
a pane of glass. For an instant I thought of leap- 
ing in and making a bid for liberty alone. The 
strange tone in which “ You, Simon ! ” had struck 
home to my heart forbade me. But I was sick with 
the world, and turned from the boat to gaze over 
the sea. There is a power in the quiet water by 
night ; it draws a man with a promise of peace in 
the soft lap of forgetfulness. So strong is the al- 
lurement that, though I count myself sane and of 
sound mind, I do not love to look too long on the 
bosom of deep waters when the night is full; for 
the doubt comes then whether to live is sanity and 
not rather to die and have an end of the tossing of 
life and the unresting dissatisfaction of our state. 
That night the impulse came on me mightily, and 
I fought it, forcing myself to look, refusing the 
weakness of flight from the seductive siren. For I 
was fenced round with troubles and of a sore heart : 
there lay the open country and a heart at peace. 

Suddenly I gave a low exclamation ; the water, 
which had fled from us as we moved, seeming glad 
246 


M. DE PERRENCOURT WONDERS 


to pass us by and rush again on its race undisturbed, 
stood still. From the swill came quiet, out of the 
shimmer a mirror disentangled itself, and lay there 
on the sea, smooth and bright. But it grew dull in 
an instant ; I heard the sails flap, but saw them no 
more. A dense white vapour settled on us, the 
length of my arm bounded my sight, all movement 
ceased, and we lay on the water, inert and idle. I 
leant beside the gunwale, feeling the fog moist on 
my face, seeing in its baffling folds a type of the 
toils that bound and fettered me. Now voices rose 
round me, and again fell ; the crew questioned, the 
captain urged; I heard Colbert’s voice as he hur- 
ried on deck. The sufficient answer was all around 
us ; where the mist was there could be no wind ; in 
grumbling the voices died away. 

The rest of what passed seems even now a strange 
dream that I can hardly follow, whose issue alone I 
know, which I can recover only dimly and vaguely 
in my memory. I was there in the stern, leaning 
over, listening to the soft sound of the sea, as Thom- 
as Lie’s boat rolled lazily from side to side and the 
water murmured gently under the gentle stroke. 
Then came voices again just by my shoulder. I 
did not move. I knew the tones that spoke, the 
persuasive, commanding tones hard to resist, apt to 
compel. Slowly I turned myself round ; the speak- 
ers must be within eight or ten feet of me, but I 
could not see them. Still they came nearer. Then 
I heard the sound of a sob, and at it sprang to ri- 
gidity, poised ori ready feet, with my hand on the hilt 
of my sword. 

“You’re weary now,” said the smooth, strong 
voice. “We will talk again in the morning. From 
my heart I grieve to have distressed you. Come, 
247 


SIMON DALE 


well find the gentleman whom you desire to speak 
with, and I’ll trouble you no more. Indeed I count 
myself fortunate in having asked my good brother 
for one whose company is agreeable to you. For 
your sake, your friend shall be mine. Come, I’ll 
take you to him, and then leave you.” 

Barbara’s sobs ceased ; I did not wonder that his 
persuasions won her to repose and almost to trust. 
It seemed that the mist grew a little less thick ; I 
saw their figures. Knowing that at the same mo- 
ment I must myself be seen, I spoke on the in- 
stant, 

“I am here, at Mistress Quinton’s service.” 

M. de Perrencourt (to call him still by his chosen 
name) came forward and groped his way to my arm, 
whispering in French, 

“ All is easy. Be gentle with her. Why, she 
turns to you of her own accord! All will go 
smoothly.” 

“ You may be sure of it, sir,” I said. “ Will you 
leave her with me ? ” 

“ Yes,” he answered. “ I can trust you, can’t I? ” 

“ I may be trusted to death,” I answered, smiling 
behind the mist’s kind screen. 

Barbara was by his side now ; with a bow he drew 
back. I traced him as he went towards where Lie 
stood, and I heard a murmur of voices as he and the 
helmsman spoke to one another. Then I heard no 
more, and lost sight of him in the thick close dark- 
ness. I put out my hand and felt for Barbara’s ; it 
came straight to mine. 

“You — ^you’ll stay with me?” she murmured. 
“I’m frightened, Simon.” 

As she spoke, I felt on my cheek the cold breath 
of the wind. Turning my full face, I felt it more. 

248 


M. DE PERRENCOURT WONDERS 


The breeze was rising, the sails flapped again, 
Thomas Lie’s boat buffeted the waves with a quick- 
er beat. When I looked towards her, I saw her face, 
framed in mist, pale and wet with tears, beseeching 
me. There at that moment, born in danger and 
nursed by her helplessness, there came to me a new 
feehng, that was yet an old one ; now I knew that 
I would not leave her. Nay, for an instant I was 
tempted to abandon all effort and drift on to the 
French shore, looking there to play my own game, 
despite of her and despite of King Louis himself. 
But the risk was too desperate. 

‘‘No, I won’t leave you,” I said in low tones 
that trembled under the fresh burden which they 
bore. 

But yes, the wind rose, the mist began to lift, 
the water was running lazily from under our keel, 
the little boat bobbed and danced to a leisurely tune. 

“The wind serves,” cried Thomas Lie. “We 
shall make land in two hours if it hold as it blows 
now.” 

The plan was in my head. It was such an im- 
pulse as coming to a man seems revelation and for- 
bids all questioning of its authority. I held Barbara 
still by the hand, and drew her to me. There, lean- 
ing over the gunwale, we saw Thomas Lie’s boat 
moving after us. His sculls lay ready. I looked 
in her eyes, and was answered with wonder, perplex- 
ity, and dawning intelligence. 

“ I daren’t let him carry you to Calais,” I whis- 
pered ; “ we should be helpless there.” 

“ But you — it’s you.” 

“ As his tool and his fool,” I muttered. Low as 
I spoke, she heard me, and asked despairingly ; 

“ What then, Simon ? What can we do ? ” 

249 


SIMON DALE 


‘‘ If I go there, will you jump into my arms ? 
The distance isn’t far.” 

“ Into the boat ! Into your arms in the boat ? ” 

“Yes. I can hold you. There’s a chance if we 
go now — now, before the mist lifts more.” 

“ If we’re seen ? ” 

“We’re no worse off.” 

“Yes, I’ll jump, Simon.” 

We were moving now briskly enough, though the 
wind came in fitful gusts and with no steady blast, 
and the mist now lifted, now again swathed us in 
close folds. I gripped Barbara’s hand, whispering, 
“ Be ready,” and, throwing one leg over the side, 
followed with the other, and dropped gently into 
Thomas Lie’s boat. It swayed under me, but it was 
broad in the beam and rode high in the water; no 
harm happened. Then I stood square in the bows 
and whispered “Now!” For the beating of my 
heart I scarcely heard my own voice, but I spoke 
louder than I knew. At the same instant that 
Barbara sprang into my arms, there was a rush of 
feet across the deck, an oath rang loud in French, 
and another figure appeared on the gunwale, with 
one leg thrown over. Barbara was in my arms. I 
felt her trembling body cling to mine, but I disen- 
gaged her grasp quickly and roughly — for gentleness 
asks time, and time had we none — and set her down 
in the boat. Then I turned to the figure above 
me. A momentary glance showed me the face of 
King Louis. I paid no more heed, but drew my 
knife and flung myself on the rope that bound the 
boat to the ship. 

Then the breeze dropped, and the fog fell thick 
and enveloping. My knife was on the rope and I 
severed the strands with desperate strength. One 
250 


M. DE PERRENCOURT WONDERS 


by one I felt them go. As the last went I raised 
my head. From the ship above me flashed the fire 
of a pistol, and a ball whistled by my ear. Wild 
with excitement, I laughed derisively. The last 
strand was gone, slowly the ship forged ahead ; but 
then the man on the gunwale gathered himself to- 
gether and sprang across the water between us. He 
came full on the top of me, and we fell together on 
the floor of the boat. By the narrowest chance we 
escaped foundering, but the sturdy boat proved 
true. I clutched my assailant with all my strength, 
pinning him arm to arm, breast to breast, shoulder 
to shoulder. His breath was hot on my face. I 
gasped “ Row, row.” From the ship came a sud- 
den alarmed cry : “ The boat, the boat ! ” But al- 
ready the ship grew dim and indistinct. 

“ Row, row,” I muttered ; then I heard the sculls 
set in their tholes, and with a slow, faltering stroke 
the boat was guided away from the ship, moving 
nearly at a right angle to it. I put out all my 
strength. I was by far a bigger man than the King, 
and I did not spare him. I hugged him with a 
bear’s hug, and his strength was squeezed out of him. 
Now I was on the top and he below. I twisted 
his pistol from his hand and flung it overboard. 
Tumultuous cries came from the blurred mass that 
was the ship ; but the breeze had fallen, the fog was 
thick, they had no other boat. The King lay still. 
“ Give me the sculls,” I whispered. Barbara yield- 
ed them ; her hands were cold as death when they 
encountered mine. She scrambled into the stern. 
I dragged the King back — he was like a log now — 
till he lay with the middle of his body under the 
seat on which I sat ; his face looked up from between 
my feet. Then I fell to rowing, choosing no course 
251 


SIMON DALE 


except that our way should be from the ship, and 
ready, at any movement of the still form below me, 
to drop my sculls and set my pistol at his head. 
Yet till that need came I bent lustily to my work, 
and when I looked over the sea the ship was not to 
be seen, but all around hung the white vapour, the 
friendly accomphce of my enterprise. 

That leap of his was a gallant thing. He knew 
that I was his master in strength, and that I stood 
where no motive of prudence could reach and no 
fear restrain me. If I were caught, the grave or a 
French prison would be my fate ; to get clear off, 
he might suppose that I should count even the 
most august life in Christendom well taken. Yet 
he had leapt, and, before heaven, I feared that I 
had killed him. If it were so, I must set Barbara 
in safety, and then follow him where he was gone ; 
there would be no place for me among living men, 
and I had better choose my own end than be 
hunted to death like a mad dog. These thoughts 
spun through my brain as my arms drove the 
blades into the water, on an aimless course through 
the mist, till the mass of the ship utterly disap- 
peared, and we three were alone on the sea. Then 
the fear overcame me. I rested on my oars, and, 
leaning over to where Barbara sat in the stern, I 
shaped with awe-struck lips the question — “ Is he 
dead ? My God, is he dead ? ’’ 

She sat there, herself, as it seemed, half-dead. 
But at my words she shivered and with an effort 
mastered her relaxed limbs. Slowly she dropped 
on her knees by the King and raised his head in 
her arms. She felt in her bosom and drew out a 
flask of salts, which she set to his nostrils. I 
watched his face ; the muscles of it contracted into 
252 


M. DE PERRENCOURT WONDERS 


a grimace, then were smoothed again to calmness ; 
he opened his eyes. “ Thank God,” I muttered to 
myself ; and the peril to him being gone by, I re- 
membered our danger, and taking out my pistol 
looked to it, and sat dangling it in my hand. 

Barbara, still supporting the King’s head, looked 
up at me. 

“ What will become of us ? ” she asked. 

“ At least we sha’n’t be married in Calais,” I an- 
swered with a grim smile. 

“No,” she murmured, and bent again over the 
King. 

Now his eyes were wide-opened, and I fixed mine 
on them. 1 saw the return of consciousness and 
intelligence; the quick glance that fell on me, on 
the oars, on the pistol in my hand, witnessed to it. 
Then he raised himself on his elbow, Barbara draw- 
ing quickly away, and so rested an instant, regard- 
ing me still. He drew himself up into a sitting 
posture, and seemed as though he would rise to his 
feet. I raised the pistol and pointed it at him. 

“No higher, if you please,” said I. “ It’s a mat- 
ter of danger to walk about in so small a boat, and 
you came near to upsetting us before.” 

He turned his head and saw Barbara, then gazed 
round on the sea. No sail was to be seen, and the 
fog still screened the boat in impenetrable solitude. 
The sight brought to his mind a conviction of what 
his plight was. Yet no dismay nor fear showed in 
his face. He sat there, regarding me with an ear- 
nest curiosity. At last he spoke. 

“You were deluding me all the time ? ” he asked. 

“Even so,” said I, with an inclination of my 
head. 

“ You did not mean to take my offer ? ” 

17 253 


SIMON DALE 


‘‘ Since I am a gentleman, I did not.” 

“ I also am accounted a gentleman, sir.” 

“ Nay, I took you for a prince,” said I. 

He made me no answer, but, looking round him 
again, observed : 

“The ship must be near. But for this cursed 
fog she would be in sight.” 

“ It’s well for us she isn’t,” I said. 

“ Why, sir ? ” he asked brusquely. 

“ If she were, there’s the pistol for the lady, and 
this sword here for you and me,” said I coolly. 
For a man may contrive to speak coolly, though 
his bearing be a he and his heart beat quick. 

“ You daren’t ! ” he cried in amazement. 

“ I should be unwilhng, ” I conceded. 

For an instant there was silence. Then came 
Barbara’s voice, soft and fearful : 

“ Simon, the fog lifts.” 

It was true. The breeze blew and the fog lifted. 
Louis’ eyes sparkled. All three of us, by one im- 
pulse, looked round on the sea. The fresh wind 
struck my cheek, and the enveloping folds curled 
lazily away. Barbara held up her hand and 
pointed. Away on the right, dimly visible, just 
detached from the remaining clouds of mist, was a 
dark object, sitting high on the water. A ship it 
was, in all likelihood the King’s ship. We should 
be sighted soon. My eyes met the King’s, and his 
were exultant and joyful; he did not yet believe 
that I would do what I had said, and he thought 
that the trap closed on us again. For still the 
mist rose, and in a few moments they on the ship 
must see us. 

“You shall pay for your trick,” he said between 
his teeth. 


254 


M. DE PERRENCOURT WONDERS 

“It is very likely,” said I. “But I think that 
the debt will be paid to your Majesty’s successor.” 

Still he did not believe. I burst into a laugh of 
grim amusement. These great folk find it hard to 
understand how sometimes their greatness is noth- 
ing, and the thing is man to man ; but now and 
then fortune takes a whim and teaches them the 
lesson for her sport. 

“ But since you are a King,” said I, “ you shall 
have your privilege. You shall pass out before the 
lady. See, the ship is very plain now. Soon we 
shall be plain to the ship. Come, sir, you go first.” 

He looked at me, now puzzled and alarmed. 

“ I am unarmed,” he said. 

“ It is no fight,” I answered. Then I turned to 
Barbara. “ Go and sit in the stern,” I said, “and 
cover your face with your hands.” 

“ Simon, Simon,” she moaned, but she obeyed 
me, and threw herself down, burying her face in 
her hands. I turned to the King. 

“ How will you die, sir ? ” said I quietly and, as 
I believe, in a civil manner. 

A sudden shout rang in my ears. I would not 
look away from him, lest he should spring on me 
or fling himself from the boat. But I knew 
whence the shout came, for it was charged with 
joy and the relief of unbearable anxiety. The ship 
was the King’s ship and his servants had seen their 
master. Yet they would not dare to fire without 
his orders, and with the risk of killing him ; there- 
fore I was easy concerning musket shot. But we 
must not come near enough for a voice to be heard 
from us, and a pistol to carry to us. 

“ How will you die ? ” I asked again. His eyes 
questioned me. I added, “As God lives I will.” 
And I smiled at him. 


256 


CHAPTER XVII 


WHAT BEFELL MY LAST GUINEA 

There is this in great station, that it imparts to a 
man a bearing sedate in good times and debonair 
in evil. A king may be unkinged, as befell him 
whom in my youth we called the Royal Martyr, 
but he need not be unmanned. He has tasted of 
what men count the best, and, having found even 
in it much bitterness, turns to greet fortune’s new 
caprice smiling or unmoved. Thus it falls out 
that though princes live no better lives than com- 
mon men, yet for the most part they die more 
noble deaths ; their sunset paints all their sky, and 
we remember not how they bore their glorious 
burden, but with what grace they laid it down. 
Much is forgiven to him who dies becomingly, and 
on earth, as in Heaven, there is pardon for the 
parting soul. Are we to reject what we are taught 
that God receives? I have need enough of for- 
giveness to espouse the softer argument. 

Now King Louis, surnamed the Great, having 
more matters in his head than the scheme I thought 
to baffle, and (to say truth) more ladies in his heart 
than Barbara Quinton, was not minded to die for 
the one or the other. But had you been there 
(which Heaven for your sake forbid, I have passed 
many a pleasanter night), you would have sworn 
that death or life weighed not a straw in the bal- 
ance with him and that he had no thought save of 
the destiny God had marked for him and the realm 
266 


WHAT BEFELL MY LAST GUINEA 


that called him master. So lofty and serene he 
was, when he perceived my resolution and saw my 
pistol at his head. On my faith, the victory was 
mine, but he robbed me of my triumph, and he, 
submitting, seemed to put terms on me who held 
him at my mercy. It is all a trick, no doubt ; 
they get it in childhood, as (I mean no harm by 
my comparisons) the beggar’s child learns to whine 
or the thief’s to pick. Yet it is pretty. I wish I 
had it. 

“ In truth,” said he with a smile that had not a 
trace of wryness, “ I have chosen my means ill for 
this one time, though they say that I choose well. 
Well, God rules the world.” 

“ By deputy, sir,” said I. 

“ And deputies don’t do His will always ? Come, 
Mr. Dale, for this hour you hold the post and fill 
it well. Wear this for my sake and he handed 
across to me a dagger with a handle richly wrought 
and studded with precious stones. 

I bowed low ; yet I kept my finger on the trig- 
ger. 

“ Man, I give you my word, though not in 
words,” said he, and I, rebuked, set my weapon 
back in its place. “ Alas, for a sad moment ! ” he 
cried. “ I must bid farewell to Mistress Barbara. 
Yet (this he added, turning to her) life is long, 
madame, and has in it many changes. I pray you 
may never need friends, but should you, there is 
one ready so long as Louis is King of France. 
Call on him by the token of his ring and count 
him your humble servant.” With this he stripped 
his finger of a fine brilliant, and, sinking on his 
knee in the boat, took her hand very delicately, 
and, having set the ring on her finger, kissed her 
257 


SIMON DALE 


hand, sighed lightly yet gallantly, and rose with 
his eyes set on the ship. 

“ Row me to her,” he commanded me, shortly 
but not uncivilly ; and I, who held his life in my 
hands, sat down obediently and bent to my oars. 
In faith, I wish I had that air, it’s worth a fortune 
to a man ! 

Soon we came to the side of the ship. Over it 
looked the face of Colbert, amazed that I had 
stolen his King, and the face of Thomas Lie, in- 
dignant that I had made free with his boat; by 
them were two or three of the crew agape with 
wonder. King Louis paid no respect to their feel- 
ings and stayed their exclamations with a gesture 
of his hand. He turned to me, saying in low tones 
and with a smile, 

“You must make your own terms with my 
brother, sir. It has been hard fighting between us, 
and I am in no mood for generosity.” 

I did not know what to answer him, but I stam- 
mered : 

“ I ask nothing but that your Majesty should 
remember me as an honest man.” 

“And a brave gentleman,” he added gravely, 
with a slight inclination of his head. Then he 
turned to Barbara and took her hand again, bowing 
low and saying, “ Madame, I had meant you much 
good in my heart, and my state forced me to mean 
you some evil. I pray you remember the one and 
forget the other.” He kissed her hand again with a 
fine grace. It was a fair sounding apology for a 
thing beyond defence. I admired while I smiled. 

But Barbara did not smile. She looked up in 
his face, then dropped on her knees in the boat and 
caught his hand, kissing it twice and trying to 
258 


WHAT BEFELL MY LAST GUINEA 


speak to him. He stood looking down on her ; 
then he said softly, “Yet I have forgiven your 
friend,” and gently drew his hand away. I stood up, 
baring my head. He faced round on me and said 
abruptly, “ This affair is between you and me, sir.” 

“ I am obedient to a command I did not need,” 
said I. 

“Your pardon. Cover your head. I do not 
value outward signs of respect where the will is 
wanting. Fare you well.” 

At a sign from him Colbert stretched out a hand. 
Not a question, not a word, scarcely now a show 
of wonder came from any, save honest Lie, whose 
eyes stood out of his head and whose tongue was 
still only because it could not speak. The King 
leapt lightly on the deck of his ship. 

“ Youll be paid for the boat,” I heard him say 
to Lie. “ Make all sail for Calais.” 

None spoke to him, none questioned him. He 
saw no need for explanation and accorded no en- 
lightenment. I marvelled that fear or respect for 
any man could so bind their tongues. The King 
waved them away; Lie alone hesitated, but Col- 
bert caught him by the arm and drew him off to 
the helm. The course was given, and the ship 
forged ahead. The King stood in the stern. Now 
he raised his hat from his head and bowed low to 
Mistress Barbara. I turned to see how she took 
the salutation ; but her face was downcast, resting 
on her hands. I stood and lifted my hat ; then I 
sat down to the oars. I saw King Louis’ set, court- 
ly smile, and as our ways parted asunder, his to 
France where he ruled, mine to England where I 
prayed nothing but a hiding-place, we sent into 
one another’s eyes a long look, as of men who have 
259 


SIMON DALE 


measured strength, and part each in his own pride, 
each in respect for the powers of his enemy. In 
truth it was something to have played a winning 
hand with the Most Christain King. With regret 
I watched him go ; though I could not serve him 
in his affairs of love, I would gladly have fought 
for him in his wars. 

We were alone now on the sea; dawn was break- 
ing and the sky cleared till the cliffs were dimly 
visible behind us. I pulled the boat round, and 
set her head for home. Barbara sat in the stem, 
pale and still, exhausted by the efforts and emotion 
of the night. The great peril and her great sal- 
vation left her numb rather than thankful ; and in 
truth, if she looked into the future, her joy must 
be dashed with sore apprehension. M. de Perren- 
court was gone, the Duke of Monmouth remained ; 
till she could reach her father I was her only help, 
and I dared not show my face in Dover. But 
these thoughts were for myself, not for her, and 
seeking to cheer her I leant forward and said, 

“ Courage, Mistress Barbara.” And I added, “ At 
least we sha’n’t be married, you and I, in Calais.” 

She started a little, flushed a little, and answered 
gravely, 

“We owe Heaven thanks for a great escape, 
Simon.” 

It was true, and the knowledge of its truth had 
nerved us to the attempt so marvellously crowned 
with success. Great was the escape from such a 
marriage, made for such purposes as King Louis 
had planned. Yet some feehng shot through me, 
and I gave it voice in saying, 

“ Nay, but we might have escaped after the mar- 
riage also.” 


260 


WHAT BEFELL MY LAST GUINEA 


Barbara made no reply ; for it was none to say, 
“ The cliffs grow very plain.” 

“But that wouldn’t have served our turn,” I 
added with a laugh. “You would have come out 
of the business saddled with a sore encumbrance. ” 

“ Shall you go to Dover ? ” asked Barbara, seem- 
ing to pay no heed to all that I had been saying. 

“ Where God pleases,” I answered rather pee- 
vishly. “ Her head’s to the land, and I’ll row 
straight to land. The land is safer than the sea.” 

“No place is safe ? ” 

“ None,” I answered. But then, repenting of 
my surliness, I added, “ And none so perilous that 
you need fear, Mistress Barbara.” 

“ I don’t fear while you’re with me, Simon,” said 
she. “ You won’t leave me till we find my father ? ” 

“ Surely not,” said I. “ Is it your pleasure to 
seek him ? ” 

“ As speedily as we can,” she murmured. “ He’s 
in London. Even the King won’t dare to touch 
me when I’m with him.” 

“ To London, then ! ” I said. “ Can you make 
out the coast ? ” 

“ There’s a little bay just ahead, where the cliff 
breaks ; and I see Dover Castle away on my left 
hand.” 

“We’ll make for the bay,” said I, “and then 
seek means to get to London.” 

Even as I spoke a sudden thought struck me. I 
laid down my oars and sought my purse. Barbara 
was not looking at me, but gazed in a dreamy fashion 
towards where the Castle rose on its cliff. I opened 
the purse; it held a single guinea; the rest of my 
store lay with my saddle-bags in the French King’s 
ship ; my head had been too full to think of them. 

261 


SIMON DALE 


There is none of life’s small matters that so irks a 
man as to confess that he has no money for neces- 
sary charges, and it is most sore when a lady looks 
to him for hers. I, who had praised myself for for- 
getting how to blush, went red as a cock’s comb 
and felt fit to cry with mortification. A guinea 
would feed us on the road to London if we fared 
plainly ; but Barbara could not go on her feet. 

Her eyes must have come back to my sullen, 
downcast face, for in a moment she cried, “ What’s 
the matter, Simon ? ” 

Perhaps she carried money. Well then, I must 
ask for it. I held out my guinea in my hand. 

‘‘ It’s all I have,” said I. ‘‘ King Louis has the 
rest.” 

She gave a little cry of dismay. “ I hadn’t 
thought of money,” she cried. 

“ I must beg of you.” 

“ Ah, but, Simon, I have none. I gave my 
purse to the waiting- woman to carry, so that mine 
also is in the French King’s ship.” 

Here was humiliation ! Our fine schemes stood 
blocked for the want of so vulgar a thing as money; 
such fate waits often on fine schemes, but surely 
never more perversely. Yet, I know not why, I 
was glad that she had none. I was a guinea the 
better of her; the amount was not large, but it 
served to keep me still her Providence, and that, I 
fear, is what man, in his vanity, loves to be in 
woman’s eyes ; he struts and plumes himself in the 
pride of it. I had a guinea, and Barbara had noth- 
ing. I had sooner it were so than that she had a 
hundred. 

But to her came no such subtle consolation. To 
lack money was a new horror, untried, undreamt 
262 


WHAT BEFELL MY LAST GUINEA 


of; the thing had come to her all her days in such 
measure as she needed it, its want had never 
thwarted her desires or confined her purpose. To 
lack the price of post-horses seemed to her as 
strange as to go fasting for want of bread. 

“ What shall we do ? ” she cried in a dismay 
greater than all the perils of the night had sum- 
moned to her heart. 

We had about us wealth enough ; Louis’ dagger 
was in my belt, his ring on her finger. Yet of 
w^hat value were they, since there was nobody to 
buy them ? To offer such wares in return for a 
carriage would seem strange and draw suspicion. 
I doubted whether even in Dover I should find a 
Jew with whom to pledge my dagger, and to Dover 
in broad day I dared not go. 

I took up my oars and set again to rowing. The 
shore was but a mile or two away. The sun shone 
now and the light was full, the little bay seemed to 
smile at me as I turned my head ; but all smiles are 
short for a man who has but a guinea in his purse. 

“ What shall we do ? ” asked Barbara again. “ Is 
there nobody to whom you can go, Simon ? ” 

There seemed nobody. Buckingham I dared not 
trust, he was in Monmouth’s interest; Darrell had 
called himself my friend, but he was the servant of 
Lord Arlington, and my lord the Secretary was not 
a man to trust. My messenger would guide my 
enemies and my charge be put in danger. 

“Is there nobody, Simon ? ” she implored. 

There was one, one who would aid me with merry 
willingness and, had she means at the moment, with 
lavish hand. The thought had sprung to my mind 
as Barbara spoke. If I could come safely and 
secretly to a certain house in a certain alley in the 
263 


SIMON DALE 


town of Dover, I could have money for the sake 
of old acquaintance, and what had once been some- 
thing more, between her and me. But would Bar- 
bara take largesse from that hand ? I am a coward 
with women ; ignorance is fear’s mother and, on my 
life, I do not know how they will take this thing 
or that, with scorn or tears or shame or what, or 
again with some surprising turn of softness and (if 
I may make bold to say it) a pliability of mind to 
which few of us men lay claim and none give 
honour. But the last mood was not Barbara’s, 
and, as I looked at her, I dared not tell her where 
lay my only hope of help in Dover. I put my 
wits to work how I could win the aid for her, and 
keep the hand a secret. Such deception would sit 
lightly on my conscience. 

“ I am thinking,” I replied to her, “ whether there 
is anyone, and how I might reach him, if there is.” 

“ Surely there’s someone who would serve you 
and whom you could trust ? ” she urged. 

“Would you trust anyone whom I trust?” I 
asked. 

“ In truth, yes.” 

“ And would you take the service if I would ? ” 

“ Am I so rich that I can choose ? ” she said 
piteously. 

“ I have your promise to it ? ” 

“ Yes,” she answered with no hesitation, nay, 
with a readiness that made me ashamed of my 
stratagem. Yet, as Barbara said, beggars cannot 
be choosers even in their stratagems, and, if need 
were, I must hold her to her word. 

Now we were at the land and the keel of our 
boat grated on the shingle. W e disembarked under 
the shadow of the cliffs at the eastern end of the 
264 


WHAT BEFELL MY LAST GUINEA 


bay ; all was solitude, save for a little house stand- 
ing some way back from the sea, half-way up the 
cliff, on a level platform cut in the face of the rock. 
It seemed a fisherman’s cottage; thence might 
come breakfast, and for so much our guinea would 
hold good. There was a recess in the cliffs, and 
here I bade Barbara sit and rest herself, sheltered 
from view on either side, while I went forward to 
try my luck at the cottage. She seemed reluctant 
to be left, but obeyed me, standing and watching 
while I took my way, which I chose cautiously, 
keeping myself as much within the shadow as might 
be. I had sooner not have ventured this much ex- 
posure, but it is ill to face starvation for safety’s 
sake. 

The cottage lay but a hundred yards off, and 
soon I approached it. It was hard on six o’clock 
now, and I looked to find the inmates up and stir- 
ring. I wondered also whether Monmouth were 
gone to await Barbara and myself at the Merry 
Mariners in Deal; alas, we were too near the 
trysting-place ! Or had he heard by now that the 
bird was flown from his lure and caged by that M. 
de Perrencourt who had treated him so cavalierly ? 
I could not tell. Here was the cottage; but I 
stood still suddenly, amazed and cautious. For 
there, in the peaceful morning, in the sun’s kindly 
light, there lay across the threshold the body of a 
man ; his eyes, wide-opened, stared at the sky, but 
seemed to see nothing of what they gazed at ; his 
brown coat was stained to a dark rusty hue on the 
breast, where a gash in the stuff showed the 
passage of a sword. His hand clasped a long 
knife, and his face was known to me. I had seen 
it daily at my uprising and lying-down. The body 
265 


SIMON DALE 


was that of Jonah Wall, in the flesh my servant, 
in spirit the slave of Phineas Tate, whose teaching 
had brought him to this pass. 

The sight bred in me swift horror and enduring 
caution. The two Dukes had been despatched, 
sorely against their will, in chase of this man. 
Was it to their hands that he had yielded up his 
life and by their doing that he lay like carrion ? 
It might well be that he had sought refuge in this 
cottage, and having found there death, not com- 
fort, had been flung forth a corpse. I pitied him ; 
although he had been party to a plot which had 
well nigh caused my own death and taken no 
account of my honour, yet I was sorry for him. 
He had been about me; I grieved for him as for 
the cat on my hearth. Well, now in death he 
warned me ; it was some recompense ; I lifted my 
hat as I stole by him and slunk round to the side 
of the house. There was a window there, or 
rather a window- frame, for glass there was none ; 
it stood some six feet from the ground and I 
crouched beneath it, for I now heard voices in the 
cottage. 

“I wish the rascal hadn’t fought,” said one 
voice. ‘‘ But he flew at me like a tiger, and I had 
much ado to stop him. I was compelled to run 
him through.” 

“Yet he might have served me alive,” said 
another. 

“Your Grace is right. For although we hate 
these foul schemes, the men had the root of the 
matter in them.” 

“ They were no Papists, at least,” said the second 
voice. 

“ But the King will be pleased.” 

266 


WHAT BEFELL MY LAST GUINEA 


“ Oh, a curse on the King, although he’s what 
he is to me ! Haven’t you heard ? When I re- 
turned to the Castle from my search on the other 
side of the town, seeking you or Buckingham — by 
the way, where is he ? ” 

‘‘ Back in his bed, I warrant, sir.” 

“ The lazy dog ! Well then, they told me she 
was gone with Louis. I rode on to tell you, for, 
said I, the King may hunt his conspirators himself 
now. But who went with them ? ” 

Your Grace will wonder if I say Simon Dale 
was the man ? ” 

“The scoundrel ! It was he ! He has deluded 
us most handsomely. He was in Louis’ pay, and 
Louis has a use for him ! I’ll slit the knave’s 
throat if I get at him.” 

“ I pray your Grace’s leave to be the first man 
at him.” 

‘‘ In truth I’m much obliged to you, my Lord 
Carford,” said I to myself under the window. 

“ There’s no use in going to Deal,” cried Mon- 
mouth. “ Oh, I wish I had the fellow here ! 
She’s gone, Carford ; God’s curse on it, she’s gone 1 
The prettiest wench at Court ! Louis has captured 
her. ’Fore heaven, if only I were a king 1 ” 

“ Heaven has its own times, sir,” said Carford, 
insidiously. But the Duke, suffering from disap- 
pointed desire, was not to be led to affairs of State. 

“She’s gone,” he exclaimed again. “By God, 
sooner than lose her, I’d have married her.’ ’ 

This speech made me start. She was near him ; 
what if she had been as near him as I, and had 
heard those words? A pang shot through me, 
and, of its own accord, my hand moved to my 
sword-hilt. 


267 


SIMON DALE 


“ She is beneath your Grace’s station. The 

spouse of your Grace may one day be ” Car- 

ford interrupted himself with a laugh, and added, 
“ What God wills.” 

“So may Anne Hyde,” exclaimed the Duke. 
“ But I forget. You yourself had marked her.” 

“ I am your Grace’s humble servant always,” 
answered Carford smoothly. 

Monmouth laughed. Carford had his pay, no 
doubt, and I trust it was large; for he heard 
quietly a laugh that called him what King Louis 
had graciously proposed to make of me. I am 
glad when men who live by dirty ways are made 
to eat dirt. 

“And my father,” said the Duke, “is happy. 
She is gone, Qudrouaille stays; why, he’s so en- 
amoured that he has charged Nell to return to 
London to-day, or at the latest by to-morrow, lest 
the French lady’s virtue should be offended.” 

At this both laughed, Monmouth at his father, 
Carford at his King. 

“ What’s that ? ” cried the Duke an instant later. 

Now what disturbed him was no other than a 
most imprudent exclamation wrung from me by 
what I heard ; it must have reached them faintly, 
yet it was enough. I heard their swords rattle and 
their spurs jingle as they sprang to their feet. I 
slipped hastily behind the cottage. But by good 
luck at this instant came other steps. As the 
Duke and Carford ran to the door, the owner of 
the cottage (as I judged him to be) walked up, and 
Carford cried : 

“ Ah, the fisherman ! Come, sir, we’ll make him 
show us the nearest way. Have you fed the horses, 
fellow ? ” 


268 


WHAT BEFELL MY LAST GUINEA 

“They have been fed, my lord, and are ready,” 
was the answer. 

I did not hear more speech, but only (to my 
relief) the tramp of feet as the three went off to- 
gether. I stole cautiously out and watched them 
heading for the top of the cliff. Jonah Wall lay 
still where he was, and when the retreating party 
were out of sight I did not hesitate to search his 
body for money. I had supplied his purse, but 
now his purse was emptier than mine. Then I 
stepped into the cottage, seeking not money but 
food. Fortune was kinder here and rewarded me 
with a pasty, half-eaten, and a jug of ale. By 
the side of these lay, left by the Duke in his 
wonted profusion, a guinea. The Devil has whim- 
sical ways ; I protest that the temptation I suffered 
here was among the strongest of my life ! I could 
repay the fellow some day; two guineas would be 
by far more than twice as much as one. Yet I left 
the pleasant golden thing there, carrying off only 
the pasty and the ale ; as for the jug — a man must 
not stand on nice scruples, and Monmouth’s guinea 
would more than pay for all. 

I made my way quickly back to Barbara with the 
poor spoils of my expedition. I rounded the bluff of 
cliff that protected her hiding-place. Again I stood 
amazed, asking if fortune had more tricks in her bag 
for me. The recess was empty. But a moment 
later I was reassured ; a voice called to me, and I 
saw her some thirty yards away, down on the sea- 
beach. I set down pasty and jug and turned to 
watch. Then I perceived what went on ; white 
feet were visible in the shallow water, twinkling in 
and out as the tide rolled up and back. 

“ I had best employ myself in making breakfast 
18 269 


SIMON DALE 


ready,” said I, turning my back. But she called 
out to me again, saying how delightful was the cool 
water. So I looked, and saw her gay and merry. 
Her hat was in her hand now, and her hair blew 
free in the breeze. She had given herself up to 
the joy of the moment. I rejoiced in a feeling 
which I could not share; the rebound from the 
strain of the night left me sad and apprehensive. I 
sat down and rested my head on my hands, waiting 
till she came back. When she came, she would 
not take the food I offered her, but stood a moment, 
looking at me with puzzled eyes, before she seated 
herself near. 

“You’re sad,” she said, almost as though in 
accusation. 

“Could I be otherwise. Mistress Barbara?” I 
asked. 

“ We’re in some danger, and, what’s worse, we’ve 
hardly a penny.” 

“ But we’ve escaped the greatest peril,” she re- 
minded me. 

“ True, for the moment.” 

“ We — you won’t be married to-night,” she 
laughed, with rising colour, and turning away as 
though a tuft of rank grass by her had caught her at- 
tention and for some hidden reason much deserved it. 

“ By God’s help we’ve come out of that snare,” 
said I gravely. 

She said nothing for a moment or two ; then she 
turned to me again, asking, 

“ If your friend furnishes money, can we reach 
London in two days ? ” 

“ I’m sorry,” I answered, “ but the journey will 
need nearer three, unless we travel at the King’s 
pace or the Duke of Monmouth’s.” 

270 


WHAT BEFELL MY LAST GUINEA 


“You needn’t come all the way with me. Set 
me safe on the road, and go where your business 
calls you.” 

“ For what crime is this punishment? ” I asked 
with a smile. 

“ No, I’m serious. I’m not seeking a compli- 
ment from you. I see that you’re sad. You have 
been very kind to me, Simon. You risked life and 
liberty to save me.” 

“ Well, who could do less ? Besides, I had given 
my promise to my lord your father.” 

She made no reply, and I, desiring to warn her 
against every danger, related what had passed at 
the cottage, omitting only Monmouth’s loud- 
mouthed threats against myself. At last, moved 
by some impulse of curiosity rather than anything 
higher, I repeated how the Duke had said that, 
sooner than lose her altogether, he would have 
married her, and how my Lord Carford had been 
still his humble servant in this project as in any 
other. She flushed again as she heard me, and 
plucked her tuft of grass. 

“ Indeed,” I ended, “ I believe his Grace spoke 
no more than the truth ; I’ve never seen a man 
more in love.” 

“ And you know well what it is to be in love, 
don’t you ? ” 

“ Very well,” I answered calmly, although I 
thought that the taunt might have been spared. 
“ Therefore it may well be that some day I shall 
kiss the hand of her Grace the Duchess.” 

“ You think I desire it ? ” she asked. 

“ I think most ladies would.” 

“ I don’t desire it.” She sprang up and stamped 
her foot on the ground, crying again, “ Simon, I do 
271 


SIMON DALE 


not desire it. I wouldn’t be his wife. You smile! 
You don’t believe me? ” 

“No offer is refused until it’s made,” said I, and, 
with a bow that asked permission, I took a draught 
of the ale. 

She looked at me in great anger, her cheek 
suffused with underlying red and her dark eyes 
sparkling. 

“ I wish you hadn’t saved me,” she said in a 
fury. 

“ That we had gone forward to Calais ? ” I asked 
maliciously. 

“ Sir, you’re insolent.” She flung the reproof at 
me like a stone from a catapult. But then she re- 
peated, “ I wouldn’t be his wife.” 

“ Well, then, you wouldn’t,” said I, setting down 
the jug and rising. “ How shall we pass the day ? 
For we mustn’t go to Dover till nightfall.” 

“ I must be all day here with you ? ” she cried in 
visible consternation. 

“ You must be all day here, but you needn’t be 
with me. I’ll go down to the beach; I shall be 
within hail if need arises, and you can rest here 
alone.” 

“ Thank you, Simon,” she answered with a most 
sudden and wonderful meekness. 

Without more, I took my way to the seashore 
and lay down on the sun-warmed shingle. Being 
very weary and without sleep now for six-and- 
thirty hours, I soon closed my eyes, keeping the 
pistol ready by my side. I slept peacefully and 
without a dream ; the sun was high in heaven when, 
with a yawn and a stretching of my limbs, I awoke. 
I heard, as I opened my eyes, a little rustling as of 
somebody moving; my hand flew to the butt of 
272 


WHAT BEFELL MY LAST GUINEA 


my pistol. But when I turned round I saw Barbara 
only. She was sitting a little way behind me, look- 
ing out over the sea. Feeling my gaze she looked 
round. 

“ I grew afraid, left all alone,” she said in a timid 
voice. 

“Alas, I snored when I should have been on 
guard ! ” I exclaimed. 

“ You didn’t snore,” she cried. “I — I mean not 
in the last few moments. I had only just come 
near you. I’m afraid I spoke unkindly to you.” 

“ I hadn’t given a thought to it,” I hastened to 
assure her. 

“ You were indifferent to what I said? ” she 
cried. 

I rose to my feet and made her a bow of mock 
ceremony. My rest had put me in heart again, and 
I was in a mood to be merry. 

“ Nay, madame,” said I, “ you know that I am 
your devoted servant, and that all I have in the 
world is held at your disposal.” 

She looked sideways at me, then at the sea 
again. 

“ By heaven, it’s true ! ” I cried. “ All I have is 
yours. See ! ” I took out my precious guinea, and 
bending on my knee with uncovered head, pre- 
sented it to Mistress Barbara. 

She turned her eyes down to it and sat regarding 
it for a moment. 

“ It’s all I have, but it’s yours,” said I most 
humbly. 

“ Mine?” 

‘‘ Most heartily.” 

She lifted it from my palm with finger and 
thumb very daintily, and, before I knew what she 
273 


SIMON DALE 


was doing, or could have moved to hinder her if I 
had the mind, she raised her arm over her head and 
with all her strength flung the guinea into the 
sparkling waves. 

“ Heaven help us I ” I cried. 

“ It was mine. That’s what I chose to do with 
it,” said Barbara. 


274 


CHAPTER XVIII 


SOME MIGHTY SILLY BUSINESS 

“ In truth, madame,” said I, ‘‘ it's the wont of your 
sex. As soon as a woman knows a thing to be 
hers entirely, she’ll fling it away.” With this scrap 
of love’s lore and youth’s philosophy I turned my 
back on my companion, and having walked to 
where the battered pasty lay beside the empty jug 
sat down in high dudgeon. Barbara’s eyes were set 
on the spot where the guinea had been swallowed 
by the waves, and she took no heed of my remark 
nor of my going. 

Say that my pleasantry was misplaced, say that 
she was weary and strained beyond her power, say 
what you will in excuse, I allow it all. Yet it was 
not reason to fling my last guinea into the sea. A 
flash of petulance is well enough and may become 
beauty as summer lightning decks the sky, but fury 
is for termagants, and naught but fury could fling 
my last guinea to the waves. The offence, if 
offence there were, was too small for so monstrous 
an outburst. Well, if she would quarrel, I was 
ready; I had no patience with such tricks; they 
weary a man of sense ; women serve their turn ill 
by using them. Also I had done her some small 
service. I would die sooner than call it to her 
mind, but it would have been a grace in her to re- 
member it. 

The afternoon came, grew to its height, and 
waned as I lay, back to sea and face to cliff, think- 
275 


SIMON DALE 


ing now of all that had passed, now of what was 
before me, sparing a moment’s fitful sorrow for the 
poor wretch who lay dead there by the cottage 
door, but returning always in resentful mood to my 
lost guinea and Barbara’s sore lack of courtesy. If 
she needed me, I was ready; but heaven forbid 
that I should face fresh rebuffs by seeking her ! 
I would do my duty to her and redeem my pledge. 
More could not now be looked for, nay, by no pos- 
sibility could be welcome ; to keep away from her 
was to please her best. It was well, for in that her 
mind jumped with mine. In two hours now we 
could set out for Dover. 

“ Simon, I’m hungry.” 

The voice came from behind my shoulder, a yard 
or two away, a voice very meek and piteous, elo- 
quent of an exhaustion and a weakness so great 
that, had they been real, she must have fallen by 
me, not stood upright on her feet. Against such 
stratagems I would be iron. I paid no heed, but 
lay like a log. 

‘‘ Simon, I’m very thirsty too.” 

Slowly I gathered myself up and, standing, 
bowed. 

“ There’s a fragment of the pasty,” said I, “ but 
the jug is empty.” 

I did not look in her face and I knew she did 
not look in mine. 

“ I can’t eat without drinking,” she murmured. 

“ I have nothing with which to buy liquor, and 
there’s nowhere to buy it.” 

“ But water, Simon? Ah, but I mustn’t trouble 
you.” 

“ I’ll go to the cottage and seek some.” 

“ But that’s dangerous.” 

276 


SOME MIGHTY SILLY BUSINESS 


“ You shall come to no hurt.” 

“ But you ? ” 

“ Indeed I need a draught for myself. I should 
have gone after one in any case.” 

There was a pause, then Barbara said : 

“ I don’t want it. My thirst has passed away.” 

“ Will you take the pasty ? ” 

“ No, my hunger is gone too.” 

I bowed again. We stood in silence for a 
moment. 

“ I’ll walk a little,” said Barbara. 

“ At your pleasure,” said I. “ But pray don’t 
go far, there may be danger.” 

She turned away and retraced her steps to the 
beach. The instant she was gone, I sprang up, 
seized the jug, and ran at the best of my speed to 
the cottage. Jonah Wall lay still across the en- 
trance, no living creature was in sight; I darted in 
and looked round for water ; a pitcher stood on the 
table, and I filled the jug hastily. Then, with a 
smile of sour triumph, I hurried back the way I 
had come. She should have no cause to complain 
of me. I had been wronged, and was minded to 
hug my grievance and keep the merit of the differ- 
ence aU on my side. That motive too commonly 
underlies a seeming patience of wrong. I would 
not for the world enrich her with a just quarrel, 
therefore I brought her water, ay, although she 
feigned not to desire it. There it was for her, let 
her take it if she would, or leave it if she would ; 
and I set the jug down by the pasty. She should 
not say that I had refused to fetch her what she 
asked, although she had, for her own good reasons, 
flung my guinea into the sea. She would come 
soon, then would be my hour. Yet I would spare 
277 


SIMON DALE 


her; a gentleman should show no exultation; 
silence would serve to point the moral. 

But where was she? To say truth, I was im- 
patient for the play to begin and anticipation grew 
flat with waiting. I looked down to the shore but 
could not see her. I rose and walked forward 
till the beach lay open before me. Where was 
Barbara? 

A sudden fear ran through me. Had any mad- 
ness seized the girl, some uncontrolled whim made 
her fly from me? She could not be so foolish. 
But where was she ? On the moment of the ques- 
tion a cry of surprise rang from my lips. There, 
ahead of me, not on the shore, but on the sea, was 
Barbara. The boat was twelve or flfteen yards 
from the beach, Barbara’s face was towards me, 
and she was rowing out to sea. Forgetting pasty 
and jug, I bounded down. What new foUy was 
this? To show herself in the boat was to court 
capture. And why did she row out to sea ? In an 
instant I was on the margin of the water. I called 
out to her, she took no heed ; the boat was heavy, 
but putting her strength into the strokes she drove 
it along. Again I called, and called unheeded. 
W as this my triumph ? I saw a smile on her face. 
Not she, but I, afforded the sport then. I would 
not stand there, mocked for a fool by her eyes and 
her smile. 

“ Come back,” I cried. 

The boat moved on. I was in the water to my 
knees. “ Come back,” I cried. I heard a laugh from 
the boat, a high nervous laugh ; but the boat moved 
on. With an oath I cast my sword from me, 
throwing it behind me on the beach, and plunged 
into the water. Soon I was up to the neck, and I 
278 


SOME MIGHTY SILLY BUSINESS 

took to swimming. Straight out to sea went the 
boat, not fast, but relentlessly. In grim anger I 
swam with all my strength. I could not gain on 
her. She had ceased now even to look where my 
head bobbed among the waves ; her face was lifted 
towards the sky. By heaven, did she in very truth 
mean to leave me ? I called once more. Now she 
answered. 

“ Go back,” she said. ‘‘ I’m going alone.” 

“ By heaven, you aren’t,” I muttered with a gasp, 
and set myself to a faster stroke. Bad to deal with 
are women ! Must she fly from me and risk all 
because I had not smiled and grinned and run for 
what she needed, hke a well-trained monkey ? W ell, 
I would catch her and bring her back. 

But catch her I could not. A poor oarsman may 
beat a fair swimmer, and she had the start of me. 
Steadily out to sea she rowed, and I toiled behind. 
If her mood lasted — and hurt pride lasts long in dis- 
dainful ladies who are more wont to deal strokes 
than to bear them — my choice was plain. I must 
drown there like a rat, or turn back a beaten cur. 
Alas for my triumph ! If to have thought on it 
were sin, I was now chastened. But Barbara 
rowed on. In very truth she meant to leave me, 
punishing herself if by that she might sting me. 
What man would have shown that folly — or that 
flower of pride ? 

Yet was I beaten ? I do not love to be beaten, 
above all when the game has seemed in my hands. 
I had a card to play, and, between my pants, smiled 
grimly as it came into my mind. I glanced over 
my shoulder ; I was hard on half-a-mile from shore. 
Women are compassionate; quick on pride’s heels 
there comes remorse. I looked at the boat; the 
279 


SIMON DALE 


interval that parted me from it had not narrowed 
by an inch, and its head was straight for the coast 
of France. I raised my voice, crying: 

“ Stop, stop ! ” 

No answer came. The boat moved on. The 
slim figure bent and rose again, the blades moved 
through the water. W ell then, the card should be 
played, the trick of a wily gamester, but my only 
resource. 

“Help, help!” I cried; and letting my legs fall 
and raising my hands over my head, I inhaled a full 
breath and sank like a stone, far out of sight be- 
neath the water. Here I abode as long as 1 could ; 
then, after swimming some yards under the surface, 
I rose and put my head out again, gasping hard and 
clearing my matted hair fi’om before my eyes. I 
could scarcely stifie a cry. The boat’s head was 
turned now, and Barbara was rowing with furious 
speed towards where I had sunk, her head turned 
over her shoulder and her eyes fixed on the spot. 
She passed by where I was, but did not see me. She 
reached the spot and dropped her oars. 

“ Help, help ! ” I cried a second time, and stayed 
long enough to let her see my head before I dived 
below. But my stay was shorter now. Up again, 
I looked for her. She was all but over me as she 
went by; she panted, she sobbed, and the oars only 
just touched water. I swam five strokes and caught 
at the gunwale of the boat. A loud cry broke fi'om 
her. The oars fell from her hand. The boat was 
broad and steady. I flung my leg over and climbed 
in, panting hard. In truth I was out of breath. 
Barbara cried, “ Y ou’re safe 1 ” and hid her face in 
her hands. 

We were mad both of us, beyond a doubt, she 
280 


SOME MIGHTY SILLY BUSINESS 

sobbing there on the thwart, I panting and dripping 
in the bows. Yet for a touch of such sweet madness 
now, when all young nature was strung to a dehcious 
contest, and the blood spun through the veins full 
of life ! Our boat lay motionless on the sea, and 
the setting sun caught the undergrowth of red- 
brown hair that shot through Barbara’s dark locks. 
My own state was, I must confess, less fair to look 
on. 

I controlled my voice to a cold steadiness, as I 
wrung the water from my clothes. 

“This is a mighty siUy business. Mistress Bar- 
bara,” said I. 

I had angled for a new outburst of fury, my catch 
w^as not what I looked for. Her hands were stretched 
out towards me, and her face, pale and tearful, plead- 
ed with me. 

“ Simon, Simon, you were drowning ! Through 
my — my folly ! Oh, will you ever forgive me ? If 
— if you had come to hurt, I wouldn’t have lived.” 

“ Yet you were running away from me.” 

“I didn’t dream that you’d follow. Indeed I 
didn’t think that you’d risk death.” Then her eyes 
seemed to fall on my dripping clothes. In an in- 
stant she snatched up the cloak that lay by her and 
held it towards me, crying, “ Wrap yourself in it.” 

“ Nay, keep your cloak,” said I, “ I shall be warm 
enough with rowing. I pray you, madame, tell me 
the meaning of this freak of yours.” 

“ Nothing, nothing. I — Oh, forgive me, Simon. 
Ah, how I shuddered when I looked round on the 
water and couldn’t see you I I vowed to God that 
if you were saved .” She stopped abruptly. 

“My death would have been on your conscience ? 

I asked. 


281 


SIMON DALE 


‘‘ Till my own death,” she said. 

“Then indeed,” said I, “I’m very glad that I 
wasn’t drowned.” 

“It’s enough that you were in peril of it,” she 
murmured woefully. 

“I pray heaven,” said I cheerfully, “that I may 
never be in greater. Come, Mistress Barbara, sport 
for sport, trick for trick, feint for feint. I think 
your intention of leaving me was pretty much as 
real as this peril of drowning from which I have es- 
caped.” 

Her hands, which still implored me, fell to her 
side. An expression of wonder spread over her face. 

“ In truth I meant to leave you,” she said. 

“ And why, madame ? ” 

“ Because I burdened you.” 

“ But you had consented to accept my aid.” 

“ While you seemed to give it willingly. But I 
had angered you in the matter of that ” 

“ Ay, of that guinea. Well, it was my last.” 

“Yes, of the guinea. Although I was foolish, 
yet I could not endure your .” Again she hes- 

itated. 

“ Pray let me hear ? ” said I. 

“ I would not stay where my company was suf- 
fered rather than prized,” said she. 

“ So you were for trying fortune alone ? ” 

“Better that than with an unwilhng defender,” 
said she. 

“ Behold your injustice ! ” I cried. “ For, rather 
than lose you, I have faced all, even drowning ! ” 
And I laughed. 

Her eyes were fixed on my face, but she did not 
speak. I believe she feared to ask me the question 
that was in her dark e'^^'es. But at last she murmured : 

282 


SOME MIGHTY SILLY BUSINESS 

‘‘Why do you speak of tricks ? Simon, why do 
you laugh ? ” 

“ Why, since by a trick you left me — indeed I 
cannot believe it was no trick.” 

“ I swear it was no trick ! ” 

“ I warrant it was. And thus by a trick I have 
contrived to thwart it.” 

“ By a trick ? ” 

“ Most assuredly. Am I a man to drown with 
half a mile s swimming in smooth water ? ” Again 
I laughed. 

She leant forward and spoke in an agitated voice, 
yet imperiously. 

“ Tell me the truth. Were you indeed in danger 
and distress ? ” 

“Not a whit,” said I composedly. “But you 
wouldn’t wait for nie.” 

Slowly came her next question. 

“ It was a trick then ? ” 

“ And crowned with great success,” said I. 

“ All a trick ? ” 

“ Throughout,” I answered. 

Her face grew set and rigid, and, if it might be, 
yet paler than before. I waited for her to speak, 
but she said nothing. She drew away the cloak 
that she had offered me, and, wrapping it about her 
shoulders, withdrew to the stern of the boat. I took 
her place, and laid hold of the oars. 

“ What’s your pleasure now, madame ? ” I asked. 

“ What you will,” she said briefly. 

I looked at her ; she met my gaze with a steady 
regard. I had expected scorn, but found grief and 
hurt. Accused by the sight, I VTapped myself in 
a cold flippancy. 

“ There is small choice,” said I. “ The beach is 
283 


SIMON DALE 


there, and that we have found not pleasant. Calais 
is yonder, where certainly we must not go. To 
Dover then ? Evening falls, and if we go gently it 
will be dark before we reach the town.” 

“ Where you will. I care not,” said Barbara, and 
she folded her cloak so about her face that I could 
see little more of her than her eyes and her brows. 
Here at length was my triumph, as sweet as such 
joys are; malice is their fount and they smack of 
its bitterness. Had I followed my heart, I would 
have prayed her pardon. A sore spirit had im- 
pelled her, my revenge lacked justice. Yet I 
would not abase myself, being now in my turn sore 
and therefore obstinate. With slow strokes I pro- 
pelled the boat towards Dover town. 

For half an hour I rowed; dusk fell, and I saw 
the lights of Dover. A gentler mood came on 
me. I rested an instant, and, leaning forward, said 
to Barbara : 

“ Yet I must thank you. Had I been in peril, 
you would have saved me.” 

No answer came. 

“ I perceived that you were moved by my fan- 
cied danger,” I persisted. 

Then she spoke clearly, calmly, and coldly. 

“ I wouldn’t have a dog drown under my eyes,” 
said she. “ The spectacle is painful.” 

I performed such a bow as I could, sitting there, 
and took up my oars again. I had made my ad- 
vance ; if such were the welcome, no more should 
come from me. I rowed slowly on, then lay on 
my oars awhile, waiting for darkness to fall. The 
night came, misty again and chill. I grew cold as 
I waited (my clothes were but half-dry), and would 
gladly have thumped myself with my hands. But 
284 


SOME MIGHTY SILLY BUSINESS 

I should have seemed to ask pity of the statue that 
sat there, enveloped in the cloak, with closed eyes 
and pale unmoved face. Suddenly she spoke. 

“ Are you cold, sir ? ” 

“ Cold ? I am somewhat over-heated with row- 
ing, madame,” I answered. “ But, I pray you, 
wrap your cloak closer round you.” 

“ I am very well, I thank you, sir.” 

Yet cold I was, and bitterly. Moreover I was 
hungry and somewhat faint. Was Barbara hun- 
gry? I dared not ask her lest she should find a 
fresh mockery in the question. 

When I ventured to beach the boat a little way 
out of Dover, it was quite dark, being hard on ten 
o’clock. I offered Barbara my hand to alight, but 
she passed it by unnoticed. Leaving the boat to 
its fate, we walked towards the town. 

“ Where are you taking me ? ” asked Barbara. 

“ To the one person who can serve us,” I an- 
swered. “ Veil your face, and it would be well 
that we shouldn’t speak loud.” 

“ I have no desire to speak at all,” said Barbara. 

I would not tell her whither she went. Had we 
been friends, to bring her there would have taxed 
my persuasion to the full; as our affairs stood, I 
knew she would lie the night in the street before 
she would go. But if I got her to the house, I 
could keep her. But would she reach the house? 
She walked very wearily, faltering in her step and 
stumbling over every loose stone. I put out my 
arm to save her once, but she drew away from it, 
as though I had meant to strike her. 

At last we came to the narrow alley ; making a 
sign to Barbara, I turned down it. The house was 
in front of me ; all was quiet, we had escaped de- 

19 285 


SIMON DALE 


tection. Why, who should seek for us ? We were 
at Calais with King Louis, at Calais where we were 
to be married! 

Looking at the house, I found the upper win- 
dows dark ; there had been the quarters of Phineas 
Tate, and the King had found him others. But 
below there was a light. 

“ Will it please you to wait an instant, while I 
go forward and rouse my friend ? I shall see then 
whether all is safe.” 

“I will wait here,” answered Barbara, and she 
leant against the wall of the alley which fronted 
the house. In much trepidation I went on and 
knocked with my knuckles on the door. There 
was no other course ; yet I did not know how 
either of them would take my action — the lady 
within or the lady without, she whom I asked for 
succour or she in whose cause I sought it. 

My entry was easy ; a man-servant and a maid 
were just within, and the house seemed astir. My 
request for their mistress caused no surprise ; the 
girl opened the door of the room. I knew the 
room and gave my name. A cry of pleasure 
greeted it, and a moment later Nell herself stood 
before me. 

“ From the Castle or Calais, from Deal or the 
devil ? ” she cried. In truth she had a knack of 
telling you all she knew in a sentence. 

“W%, from half-way between Deal and the 
devil,” said I. “For I have left Monmouth on 
one side and M. de Perrencourt on the other, and 
am come safe through.” 

“ A witty Simon! But why in Dover again ? ” 

“ For want of a friend, mistress. Am I come to 
one?” 


286 


SOME MIGHTY SILLY BUSINESS 


“ With all my heart, Simon. What would 
you?” 

“ Means to go to London." 

“ Now Heaven is kind ! I go there myself in a 
few hours. You stare. In truth, it’s worth a 
stare. But the King commands. How did you 
get rid of Louis ? ” 

I told her briefly. She seemed barely to listen, 
but looked at me with evident curiosity, and, I 
think, with some pleasure. 

“ A brave thing ! ” she cried. “ Come, I’ll carry 
you to London. Nobody shall touch you while 
you’re hid under the hem of my petticoat. It will 
be like old times, Simon.” 

“ I have no money,” said I. 

“But I have plenty. For the less the King 
comes, the more he sends. He’s a gentleman in 
his apologies.” Her sigh breathed more content- 
ment than repining. 

“ So you’ll take me with you ? ” 

“ To the world’s end, Simon, and if you don’t 
ask that, at least to London.” 

“ But I’m not alone,” said I. 

She looked at me for an instant. Then she be- 
gan to laugh. 

“Whom have you with you? ” she asked. 

“ The lady,” said I. 

She laughed still, but it seemed to me not very 
heartily. 

“ I’m glad,” she said, “ that one man in England 
thinks me a good Christian. By heaven, you do, 
Simon, or you’d never ask me to aid your love.” 

“ There’s no love in the matter,” I cried. “ We’re 
at daggers drawn.” 

“ Then certainly there’s love in it,” said Mistress 
287 


SIMON DALE 


Nell, nodding her pretty head in a mighty saga- 
cious manner. “ Does she know to whom you’ve 
brought her ? ” 

“Not yet,” I answered with a somewhat uneasy 
smile. 

“ How will she take it? ” 

“ She has no other help,” said I. 

“ Oh, Simon, what a smooth tongue is yours ! ” 
She paused, seeming to fall into a reverie. Then 
she looked at me wickedly. 

“ You and your lady are ready to face the perils 
of the road ? ” 

“ Her peril is greater here, and mine as great.” 

“ The King’s pursuit, Monmouth’s rage, soldiers, 
officers, footpads ? ” 

“ A fig for them all! ” 

“ Another peril ? ” 

“ For her or for me? ” 

“ Why, for both, good Simon. Don’t you un- 
derstand ? See then I ” She came near to me, 
smiling most saucily, and pursing her lips together 
as though she meant to kiss me. 

“ If I were vowed to the lady, I should fear the 
test,” said I, “ but I am free.” 

“ Where is she ? ” asked Nell, letting my answer 
pass with a pout. 

“ By your very door.” 

“ Let’s have her in,” cried Nell, and straightway 
she ran into the alley. 

I followed, and came up with her just as she 
reached Barbara. Barbara leant no more against 
the wall, but lay huddled at the foot of it. Wear- 
iness and hunger had overcome her; she was in a 
faint, her lips colourless and her eyes closed. Nell 
dropped beside her murmuring low soft conso- 
288 


SOME MIGHTY SILLY BUSINESS 


lations. I stood by in awkward helplessness. These 
matters were beyond my learning. 

“ Lift her and carry her in,” Nell commanded, 
and, stooping, I lifted her in my arms. The maid 
and the man stared. Nell shut the door sharply 
on them. 

“ What have you done to her?” she cried to me 
in angry accusation. “ You’ve let her go without 
food.” 

“We had none. She flung my last money into 
the sea,” I pleaded. 

“And why? Oh, hold your peace and let us 
be ! ” 

To question and refuse an answer is woman’s 
way ; should it be forbidden to Nell, who was 
woman from crown to sole? I shrugged my shoul- 
ders, and drew off to the far end of the room. For 
some moments I heard nothing and remained very 
uneasy, not knowing whether it were allowed me 
to look or not, nor what passed. Then I heard 
Barbara’s voice. 

“ I thank you, I thank you much. But where 
am I, and who are you ? Forgive me, but who are 
you ? ” 

“You’re in Dover, and safe enough, madame,” 
answered Nell. “ What does it matter who I am? 
Will you drink a little of this to please me ? ” 

“No, but who are you? I seem to know your 
face.” 

“ Like enough. Many have seen it.” 

“ But tell me who you are.” 

“ Since you will know, Simon Dale must stand 
sponsor for me. Here, Simon ! ” 

I rose in obedience to the summons. A thing 
that a man does not feel of his own accord, a girl’s 
289 


SIMON DALE 


eyes will often make him feel. I took my stand by 
Nell boldly enough; but Barbara’s eyes were on 
mine, and I was full of fear. 

“ Tell her who I am, Simon,” said Nell. 

I looked at Nell. As I live, the fear that was in 
my heart was in her eyes. Yet she had faced the 
world and laughed to scorn all England’s frowns. 
She understood my thought, and coloured red. 
Since when had Cydaria learnt to blush? Even 
at Hatchstead my blush had been the target for 
her mockery. “ Tell her,” she repeated angrily. 

But Barbara knew. Turning to her, I had seen 
the knowledge take shape in her eyes and grow to 
revulsion and dismay. I could not tell what she 
would say ; but now my fear was in no way for 
myself. She seemed to watch Nell for awhile in a 
strange mingling of horror and attraction. Then 
she rose, and, still without a word, took her way on 
trembling feet towards the door. To me she gave 
no glance and seemed to pay no heed. We two 
looked for an instant, then Nell darted forward. 

“You mustn’t go,” she cried. “Where would 
you go? You’ve no other friend.” 

Barbara paused, took one step more, paused 
again. 

“ I sha’n’t harm you,” said Nell. Then she 
laughed. “You needn’t touch me, if you will 
have it so. But I can help you. And I can help 
Simon; he’s not safe in Dover.” She had grown 
grave, but she ended with another laugh, “ You 
needn’t touch me. My maid is a good girl — yes, 
it’s true — and she shall tend you.” 

“ For pity’s sake. Mistress Barbara ” I began. 

“ Hush,” said Nell, waving me back with a mo- 
tion of her hand. Barbara now stood still in the 
290 


SOME MIGHTY SILLY BUSINESS 


middle of the room. She turned her eyes on me, 
and her whisper sounded clear through all the 
room. 

“ Is it ? ” she asked. 

“ It is Mistress Eleanor Gwyn,” said I, bowing 
my head. 

Nell laughed a short strange laugh ; I saw her 
breast rise and fall, and a bright red patch marked 
either cheek. 

“ Yes, I’m Nelly,” said she, and laughed again. 

Barbara’s eyes met hers. 

“ You were at Hatchstead ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Nell, and now she smiled defiantly ; 
but in a moment she sprang forward, for Barbara 
had reeled, and seemed like to faint again and fall. 
A proud motion of the hand forbade Nell’s ap- 
proach, but weakness baffled pride, and now per- 
force Barbara caught at her hand. 

“ I — I can go in a moment,” stammered Barbara. 
«But ” 

Nell held one hand. Very slowly, very timidly, 
with fear and shame plain on her face, she drew 
nearer, and put out her other hand to Barbara. 
Barbara did not resist her, but let her come nearer; 
Nell’s glance warned me not to move, and I stood 
where I was, watching them. Now the clasp of 
the hand was changed for a touch on the shoulder, 
now the comforting arm sank to the waist and 
stole round it, full as timidly as ever gallant’s 
round a denying mistress ; still I watched, and I 
met Nell’s bright eyes, which looked across at me 
wet and sparkling. The dark hair almost mingled 
with the ruddy brown, as Barbara’s head fell on 
Nell’s shoulder. I heard a little sob, and Barbara 
moaned ; 


291 


SIMON DALE 


“ Oh, I’m tired, and very hungry.” 

“Rest here, and you shall have food, my pretty,” 
said Nell Gwyn. “Simon, go and bid them give 
you some.” 

I went, glad to go. And as I went I heard, 
“ There, pretty, don’t cry.” 

Well, women love to weep. A plague on them, 
though, they need not make us also fools. 


292 


CHAPTER XIX 


A NIGHT ON THE ROAD 

In a man of green age and inexperience a hasty 
judgment may gain pardon and none need wonder 
that his hopes carry him on straightway to con- 
clusions born of desire rather than of reason. The 
meeting I feared had passed off so softly that I 
forgot how strange and delicate it was, and what 
were the barriers which a gust of sympathy had for 
the moment levelled. It did not enter my mind 
that they must raise their heads again, and that 
friendship, or even companionship, must be impos- 
sible between the two whom I, desperately seeking 
some refuge, had thrown together. Yet an en- 
deavour was made, and that on both sides; obli- 
gation blunted the edge of Mistress Barbara’s 
scorn, freedom’s respect for virtue’s chain schooled 
Nell to an unwonted staidness of demeanour. The 
fires of war but smouldered, the faintest puff of 
smoke showing only here and there. I was on the 
alert to avoid an outbreak; for awhile no outbreak 
came and my hopes grew to confidence. But then 
— I can write the thing no other way — that ancient 
devil of hers made re-entry into the heart of Mis- 
tress Gwyn. I was a man, and a man who had 
loved her; it was then twice intolerable that I 
should disclaim her dominion, that I should be 
free, nay, that I should serve another with a sed- 
ulous care which might well seem devotion; for 
the offence touching the guinea was forgotten, my 
293 


SIMON DALE 


mock drowning well-nigh forgiven, and although 
Barbara had few words for me, they were such 
that gratitude and friendship shone in them through 
the veil of embarrassment. Mistress Nell’s shrewd 
eyes were on us, and she watched while she aided. 
It was in truth her interest, as she conceived, to 
carry Barbara safe out of Dover ; but there was 
kindness also in her ample succour ; although (ever 
slave to the sparkle of a gem) she seized with eager 
gratitude on Louis’ jewelled dagger when I offered 
it as my share of our journey’s charges, she gave 
full return ; Barbara was seated in her coach, a 
good horse was provided for me, her servant found 
me a sober suit of clothes and a sword. Thus our 
strange party stole from Dover before the town was 
awake, Nell obeying the King’s command which 
sent her back to London, and delighting that she 
could punish him for it by going in our company. 
I rode behind the coach, bearing myself like a serv- 
ing-man until we reached open country, when I 
quickened pace and stationed myself by the win- 
dow. Up to this time matters had gone well ; if 
they spoke, it was of service given and kindness 
shown. But as the day wore on and we came near 
Canterbury the devil began to busy himself. Per- 
haps I showed some discouragement at the growing 
coldness of Barbara’s manner, and my anxiety to 
warm her to greater cordiality acted as a spur on 
our companion. First Nell laughed that my sallies 
gained small attention and my compliments no 
return, that Barbara would not talk of our adven- 
tures of the day before, but harped always on 
coming speedily where her father was and so dis- 
charging me from my forced service. A merry 
look declared that if Mistress Quinton would not 
294 


A NIGHT ON THE ROAD 


play the game another would ; a fusillade of glances 
opened, Barbara seeing and feigning not to see, 
I embarrassed, yet chagrined into some return; 
there followed words, half-whispered, half-aloud, 
not sparing in reminiscence of other days and mis- 
chievously pointed with tender sentiment. The 
challenge to my manhood was too tempting, the 
joy of encounter too sweet. Barbara grew utterly 
silent, sitting with eyes downcast and lips set in a 
disapproval that needed no speech for its expres- 
sion. Bolder and bolder came Nell’s advances ; 
when I sought to drop behind she called me up ; if 
I rode ahead she swore she would bid the driver 
gallop his horses till she came to me again. “I 
can’t be without you, Simon. Ah, ’tis so long 
since we were together,” she whispered, and turned 
naughty eyes on Barbara. 

Yet we might have come through without de- 
clared conflict, had not a thing befallen us at Can- 
terbury that brought Nell into fresh temptation, 
and thereby broke the strained cords of amity. 
The doings of the King at Dover had set the 
country in some stir; there was no love of the 
French, and less of the Pope ; men were asking, 
and pretty loudly, why Madame came; she had 
been seen in Canterbury, the Duke of York had 
given a great entertainment there for her. They 
did not know what I knew, but they were uneasy 
concerning the King’s religion and their own. Yet 
Nell must needs put her head well out of window 
as we drove in. I know not whether the sequel 
were what she desired, it was at least what she 
seemed not to fear; a fellow caught sight of her 
and raised a cheer. The news spread quick among 
the idle folk in the street, and the busy, hearing it, 
295 


SIMON DALE 


came out of their houses. A few looked askance 
at our protector, but the larger part, setting their 
Protestantism above their scruples, greeted her 
gladly, and made a procession for her, cheering and 
encouraging her with cries which had more friendli- 
ness than deUcacy in them. Now indeed I dropped 
behind and rode beside the mounted servant. The 
fellow was all agrin, triumphing in his mistress’s 
popularity. Even so she herself exulted in it, and 
threw all around nods and smiles, ay, and, alas, 
repartees conceived much in the same spirit as the 
jests that called them forth. I could have cried on 
the earth to swallow me, not for my own sake (in 
itself the scene was entertaining enough, however 
httle it might tend to edification), but on account 
of Mistress Barbara. Fairly 1 was afraid to ride 
forward and see her face, and dreaded to remember 
that I had brought her to this situation. But Nell 
laughed and jested, flinging back at me now and 
again a look that mocked my glum face and de- 
clared her keen pleasure in my perplexity and her 
scorn of Barbara’s shame. Where now were the 
tenderness and sympathy which had made their 
meeting beautiful ? The truce was ended, and war 
raged relentless. 

We came to our inn ; I leapt from my horse and 
forestalled the busthng host in opening the coach 
door. The loons of townsmen and their gossiping 
wives lined the approach on either side; Nell 
sprang out, merry, radiant, unashamed ; she 
laughed in my face as she ran past me amid the 
plaudits ; slowly Barbara followed ; with a low 
bow I offered my arm. Alas, there rose a mur- 
mur of questions concerning her; who was the 
lady that rode with Nell Gwyn, who was he that, 
296 


A NIGHT ON THE ROAD 


although plainly attired, bore himself so proudly? 
Was he some great lord, travelling unknown, and 

was the lady ? Well, the conjectures may be 

guessed, and Mistress Quinton heard them. Her 
pride broke for a moment, and I feared she would 
weep ; then she drew herself up and walked slowly 
by with a haughty air and a calm face, so that the 
murmured questions fell to silence. Perhaps I 
also had my share in the change, for I walked after 
her, wearing a fierce scowl, threatening with my 
eyes, and having my hand on the hilt of my sword. 

The host, elate with the honour of Nell’s coming, 
was eager to offer us accommodation. Barbara 
addressed not a word either to Nell or to me, but 
followed a maid to the chamber allotted to her. 
Nell was in no such haste to hide herself from view. 
She cried for supper, and was led to a room on the 
first floor which overlooked the street. She threw 
the window open, and exchanged more greetings 
and banter with her admirers below. I flung my 
hat on the table, and sat moodily in a chair. Food 
was brought, and Nell, turning at last from her 
entertainment, flew to partake of it with merry 
eagerness. 

“But doesn’t Mistress Quinton sup with us?” 
she said. 

Mistress Quinton, it seemed, had no appetite for 
a meal, was shut close in her own chamber, and 
refused all service. Nell laughed and bade me fall 
to. I obeyed, being hungry in spite of my dis- 
comfort. 

I was resolute not to quarrel with her. She had 
shown me great friendliness ; nay, and I had a fond- 
ness for her, such as I defy any man (man I say, 
not woman) to have escaped. But she tried me 
297 


SIMON DALE 


sorely, and while we ate she plied me with new 
challenges and fresh incitements to anger. I held 
my temper weU in bounds, and, when I was satis- 
fied, rose with a bow, saying that I would go and 
enquire if I could be of any aid to Mistress Quinton. 

“She won’t show herself to you,” cried Nell 

mockingly. 

“ She will, if you’re not with me,” I retorted. 

“ Make the trial 1 Behold, I’m firmly seated 
here ! ” 

A maid carried my message while I paced the 
corridor; the lady’s compliments returned to me, 
but, thanks to the attention of the host, she had 
need of nothing. I sent again, saying that I de- 
sired to speak with her concerning our journey. 
The lady’s excuses returned to me ; she had a head- 
ache and had sought her bed; she must pray me 
to defer my business till the morrow, and wished 
Mistress Gwyn and me good-night. The maid 
tripped off smiling. 

“ Plague on her ! ” I cried angrily and loudly. A 
laugh greeted the exclamation, and I turned to see 
Nell standing in the doorway of the room where we 
had supped. 

“ I knew, I knew ! ” she cried, revelling in her 
triumph, her eyes dancing in delight. ‘ ‘ Poor 
Simon! Alas, poor Simon, you know little of 
women! But come, you’re a brave lad, and I’ll 
comfort you. Besides you have given me a 
jewelled dagger. Shall I lend it to you again, to 
plunge in your heart, poor Simon ? ” 

“ I don’t understand you. I have no need of a 
dagger,” I answered stiffly; yet, feeling a fool there 
in the passage, I followed her into the room. 

“Your heart is pierced already?” she asked. 

298 


A NIGHT ON THE ROAD 


‘^Ah, but your heart heals well! I’ll spend no 
pity on you.” 

There was now a new tone in her voice. Her eyes 
still sparkled in mischievous exultation that she had 
proved right and I come away sore and baffled. But 
when she spoke of the healing of my heart, there was 
an echo of sadness ; the hinting of some smothered 
sorrow seemed to be struggling with her mirth. 
She was a creature all compounded of sudden chang- 
ing moods ; I did not know when they were true, 
when feigned in sport or to further some device. 
She came near now and bent over my chair, saying 
gently, 

“Alas, I’m very wicked! I couldn’t help the 
folk cheering me, Simon. Surely it was no fault 
of mine ? ” 

“ You had no need to look out of the window of 
the coach,” said I sternly. 

‘ ‘ But I did that with never a thought. I wanted 
the air. I ” 

“Nor to jest and banter. It was mighty un- 
seemly, I swear.” 

“ In truth I was wrong to jest with them,” said 
Nell remorsefully. “ And within, Simon, my heart 
was aching with shame, even while I jested. Ah, 
you don’t know the shame I feel ! ” 

“ In good truth,” I returned, “ I believe you feel 
no shame at all.” 

“ You’re very cruel to me, Simon. Yet it’s no 

more than my desert. Ah, if she sighed 

heavily. “ If only, Simon ,” she said, and her 

hand was very near my hair by the back of the 
chair. “ But that’s past praying,” she ended, sigh- 
ing again most woefully. “Yet I have been of 
some service to you.” 


SIMON DALE 


“ I thank you for it most heartily,” said I, still stiff 
and cold. 

‘‘ And I was very wrong to-day. Simon, it was 
on her account.” 

“ What ? ” I cried. “ Did Mistress Quinton bid 
you put your head out and jest with the fellows on 
the pavement ? ” 

“ She did not bid me ; but I did it because she 
was there.” 

I looked up at her ; it was a rare thing with her, 
but she would not meet my glance. I looked down 
again. 

“ It was always the same between her and me,” 
murmured N ell. “ Ay, so long ago — even at Hatch- 
stead.” 

“ We’re not in Hatchstead now,” said I roughly. 

“No, nor even in Chelsea. For even in Chelsea 
you had a kindness for me.” 

“ I have much kindness for you now.” 

“ Well, then you had more.” 

“ It is in your knowledge why now I have no 
more.” 

“ Yes, it’s in my knowledge ! ” she cried. “ Yet 
I carried Mistress Quinton from Dover.” 

I made no answer to that. She sighed “ Heigho,” 
and for a moment there was silence. But messages 
pass without words, and there are speechless Mer- 
curies who carry tidings from heart to heart. Then 
the air is full of whisperings, and silence is but foil 
to a thousand sounds which the soul hears though 
the dull corporeal ear be deaf. Did she still amuse 
herself, or was there more ? Sometimes a part, as- 
sumed in play or malice, so grows on the actor that 
he cannot, even when he would, throw aside his 
trappings and wash from his face the paint which 
300 


A NIGHT ON THE ROAD 


was to show the passion that he played. The thing 
takes hold and will not be thrown aside ; it seems 
to seek revenge for the light assumption and pun- 
ishes the bravado that feigned without feeling by a 
feeling which is not feint. She was now, for the 
moment if you will, but yet now, in earnest. Some 
wave of recollection or of fancy had come over her 
and transformed her jest. She stole round till her 
face peeped into mine in piteous bewitching en- 
treaty, asking a sign of fondness, bringing back the 
past, raising the dead from my heart s sepulchre. 
There was a throbbing in my brain ; yet I had 
need of a cool head. With a spring I was on my 
feet. 

“I’ll go and ask if Mistress Barbara sleeps,” 
I stammered. “ I fear she may not be well at- 
tended.” 

“You’ll go again? Once scorned, you’ll go 
again, Simon ? W ell, the maid will smile ; they’ll 
make a story of it among themselves at their sup- 
per in the kitchen.” 

The laugh of a parcel of knaves and wenches ! 
Surely it is a small thing ! But men will face 
death smiling who run wry-faced from such ridi- 
cule. I sank in my chair again. But in truth did 
I desire to go ? The dead rise, or at least there is 
a voice that speaks from the tomb. A man tarries 
to listen. Well if he be not lost in listening ! 

With a sigh Nell moved across the room and 
flung the window open. The loiterers were gone, 
all was still, only the stars looked in, only the sweet 
scent of the night made a new companion. 

“ It’s like a night at Hatchstead,” she whispered. 
“ Do you remember how we walked there together ? 
It smelt as it smells to-night. It’s so long ago ! ” 
20 301 


SIMON DALE 


She came quickly towards me and asked “ Do you 
hate me now ? ” but did not wait for the answer. 
She threw herself in a chair near me, and fixed her 
eyes on me. It was strange to see her face grave 
and wrung with agitation ; yet she was better thus, 
the new timidity became her marvellously. 

There was a great clock in the corner of the old 
panelled room ; it ticked solemnly, seeming to keep 
time with the beating of my heart. I had no desire 
to move, but sat there waiting; yet every nerve of 
my body was astir. N ow I watched her every move- 
ment, took reckoning of every feature, seemed to 
read more than her outward visage showed and to 
gain knowledge of her heart. I knew that she 
tempted me, and why. I was not a fool to think 
that she loved me ; but she was set to conquer me, 
and with her there was no price that seemed high 
when the price was victory or a whim’s fulfilment. 

I would have written none of this, but that it is 
so part and marrow of my history that without it 
the record of my life would go limping on one leg. 

She rose and came near me again. Now she 
laughed, yet still not lightly, but as though she hid 
a graver mood. 

“ Come,” said she, “you needn’t fear to be civil 
to me. Mistress Barbara is not here.” 

The taunt was well conceived ; for the most part 
there is no incitement that more whips a man to 
any madness than to lay self-control to the score of 
cowardice, and tell him that his scruples are not 
his own but worn by command of another and on 
pain of her displeasure. But sometimes woman’s 
cunning goes astray, and a name, used in mockery, 
speaks for itself with strong attraction, as though it 
held the charm of her it stands for. The name, 
302 


A NIGHT ON THE ROAD 


falling from Nell’s pouting lips, had power to raise 
in me a picture, and the picture spread, like a very 
painting done on canvas, a screen between me and 
the alluring eyes that sought mine in provoking 
witchery. She did not know her word’s work, and 
laughed again to see me grow yet more grave at 
Barbara’s name. 

“ The stern mistress is away,” she whispered. 
“ May we not sport ? The door is shut I Why, 
Simon, you’re dull. In truth you’re as dull as the 
King when his purse is empty.” 

I raised my eyes to hers, she read the thought. 
She tossed her head, flinging the brown curls back; 
her eyes twinkled merrily, and she said in a soft 
whisper half-smothered in a rising laugh, 

“ But, Simon, the King also is away.” 

I owed nothing to the King and thought nothing 
of the King. It was not there I stuck. Nay, 
and I did not stick on any score of conscience. 
Yet stick I did, and gazed at her with a dumb 
stare. She seemed to fall into a sudden rage, 
crying. 

Go to her then if you will, but she won’t have 
you. Would you like to know what she called you 
to-day in the coach ? ” 

‘ ‘ I would hear nothing that was not for my ears.” 

“ A very pretty excuse ; but in truth you fear to 
hear it.” 

Alas, the truth was even as she said. I feared 
to hear it. 

‘‘ But you shall hear it. ‘ A good honest fellow,’ 
she said, ‘ but somewhat forward for his station.’ 
So she said, and leant back with half-closed lids. 
You know the trick these great ladies have? By 
Heaven, though, I think she wronged you ! For 
303 


SIMON DALE 


I’ll swear on my Bible that you’re not forward, 
Simon. Well, I’m not Mistress Quinton.” 

“ You are not,” said I, sore and angry, and wish- 
ing to wound her in revenge for the blow she had 
dealt me. 

“ Now you’re gruff with me for what she said. 
It’s a man’s way. I care not. Go and sigh out- 
side her door ; she won’t open it to you.” 

She drew near to me again, coaxing and seeking 
to soften me. 

“ I took your part,” she whispered, “ and declared 
that you were a fine gentleman. Nay, I told her 
how once I had come near to — Well, I told her 
many things that it should please you to hear. But 
she grew mighty short with me, and on the top 
came the folk with their cheers. Hence my lady’s 
in a rage.” 

She shrugged her shoulders ; I sat there sullen. 
The scornful words were whirling through my brain. 
“ Somewhat forward for his station ! ” It was a 
hard judgment on one who had striven to serve 
her. In what had I shown presumption? Had she 
not professed to forgive all offence ? She kept the 
truth for others, and it came out when my back 
was turned. 

“Poor Simon!” said Nell softly. “Indeed I 
wonder any lady should speak so of you. It’s an 
evil return for your kindness to her.” 

Silence fell on us for awhile. Nell was by me 
now, her hand rested lightly on my shoulder, and, 
looking up, I saw her eyes on my face in mingled 
pensiveness and challenge. 

“Indeed you are not forward,” she murmured 
with a little laugh, and set one hand over her eyes, 

I sat and looked at her ; yet, though I seemed 

304 


A NIGHT ON THE ROAD 


to look at her only, the whole of the room with 
its furnishings is stamped clear and clean on my 
memory. Nell moved a little away and stood 
facing me. 

“ It grows late,” she said softly, “ and we must 
be early on the road. I’ll bid you good-night, and 
go to my bed.” 

She came to me, holding out her hand ; I did not 
take it, but she laid it for a moment on mine. 
Then she drew it away and moved towards the door. 
I rose and followed her. 

“ I’ll see you safe on your way,” said I in a low 
voice. She met my gaze for a moment, but made 
no answer in words. We were in the corridor now, 
and she led the way. Once she turned her head 
and again looked at me. It was a sullen face she 
saw, but still I followed. 

“ Tread lightly I ” she whispered. “ There’s her 
door ; we pass it, and she would not love to know 
that you escorted me. She scorns you herself, and 
yet when another ” The sentence went unended. 

In a tumult of feeling still I followed. I was half- 
mad with resentment against Barbara ; swearing to 
myself that her scorn was nothing to me, I shrank 
from nothing to prove to my own mind the lie that 
my heart would not receive. 

“ The door !” whispered Nell, going delicately on 
her toes with uplifted fore-finger. 

I cannot tell why, but at the word I came to a 
stand. Nell, looking over her shoulder and seeing 
me stand, turned to front me. She smiled merrily, 
then frowned, then smiled again with raised eye- 
brows. I stood there, as though pinned to the spot. 
For now I had heard a sound from within. It came 
very softly. There was a stir as of someone mov- 
305 


SIMON DALE 


ing, then a line of some soft sad song, falling in 
careless half-consciousness from saddened lips. 
The sound fell clear and plain on my ears, though 
I paid no heed to the words and have them not in 
my memory; I think that in them a maid spoke to 
her lover who left her, but I am not sure. I 
listened. The snatch died away, and the move- 
ment in the room ceased. All was still again, and 
Nell’s eyes were fixed on mine. I met them 
squarely, and thus for awhile we stood. Then 
came the unspoken question, cried from the eyes 
that were on mine in a thousand tones. I could 
trace the play of her face but dimly by the light of 
the smoky lantern, but her eyes I seemed to see 
bright and near. I had looked for scorn there, and, 
it might be, amusement. I seemed to see (perhaps 
the imperfect light played tricks), besides lure and 
raillery, reproach, sorrow, and, most strange of 
all, a sort of envy. Then came a smile, and ever 
so lightly her finger moved in beckoning. The 
song came no more through the closed door : my 
ears were empty of it, but not my heart ; there it 
sounded still in its soft pleading cadence. Poor 
maid, whose lover left her ! Poor maid, poor 
maid! I looked full at Nell, but did not move. 
The lids dropped over her eyes, and their lights 
went out. She turned and walked slowly and alone 
along the corridor. I watched her going, yes, wist- 
fully I watched. But I did not follow, for the 
snatch of song rose in my heart. There was a door 
at the end of the passage; she opened it and passed 
through. For a moment it stood open, then a 
hand stole back and slowly drew it close. It was 
shut. The click of the lock rang loud and sharp 
through the silent house. 

306 


CHAPTER XX 


THE VICAR’S PROPOSITION 

I DO not know how long I stood outside the door 
there in the passage. After awhile I began to 
move softly to and fro, more than once reaching 
the room where I was to sleep, but returning again 
to my old post. I was loth to forsake it. A 
strange desire was on me. I wished that the door 
would open, nay, to open it myself, and by my 
presence declare what was now so plain to me. 
But to her it would not have been plain; for now 
I was alone in the passage, and there was nothing 
to show the thing which had come to me there, 
and there at last had left me. Yet it seemed 
monstrous that she should not know, possible to 
tell her to-night, certain that my shame-faced 
tongue would find no words to-morrow. It was a 
thing that must be said while the glow and the 
charm of it were still on me, or it would find no 
saying. 

The light had burnt down very low, and gave 
forth a dim fitful glare, hardly conquering the 
darkness. Now, again, I was standing still, lost in 
my struggle. Presently, with glad amazement, as 
though there had come an unlooked-for answer to 
my prayer, I heard a light step within. The foot- 
falls seemed to hesitate ; then they came again, the 
bolt of the door shot back, and a crack of faint 
light showed. “Who’s there?” asked Barbara’s 
voice, trembling with alarm or some other agita- 
307 


SIMON DALE 


tion which made her tones quick and timid. I 
made no answer. The door opened a little wider. 
I saw her face as she looked out, half-fearful, yet 
surely also half-expectant. Much as I had desired 
her coming, I would willingly have escaped now, 
for I did not know what to say to her. I had re- 
hearsed my speech a hundred times ; the moment 
for its utterance found me dumb. Yet the im- 
pulse I had felt was still on me, though it failed to 
give me words. 

“ I thought it was you,” she whispered. “ Why 
are you there ? Do you want me ? ” 

Lame and halting came my answer. 

“ I was only passing by on my way to bed, ” I 
stammered. “ I’m sorry I roused you. ” 

‘‘ I wasn’t asleep,” said she. Then after a pause 
she added, “ I — I thought you had been there 
some time. Good-night.” 

She bade me good-night, but yet seemed to wait 
for me to speak ; since I was still silent she added, 
“Is our companion gone to bed? ” 

“ Some little while back,” said I. Then raising 
my eyes to her face, I said, ‘‘ I’m sorry that you 
don’t sleep.” 

“ Alas, we both have our sorrows,” she returned 
with a doleful smile. Again there was a pause. 

“ Good-night,” said Barbara. 

“ Good-night,” said I. 

She drew back, the door closed, I was alone 
again in the passage. 

Now if any man — nay, if every man — who reads 
my history, at this place close the leaves on his 
thumb and call Simon Dale a fool, I wiU not com- 
plain of him ; but if he be moved to fling the book 
away for good and all, not enduring more of such 
308 


THE VICAR’S PROPOSITION 


a fool as Simon Dale, why I will humbly ask him 
if he hath never rehearsed brave speeches for his 
mistress’s ear and found himself tongue-tied in her 
presence ? And if he hath, what did he then ? I 
wager that, while calling himself a dolt with most 
hearty honesty, yet he set some of the blame on 
her shoulders, crying that he would have spoken 
had she opened the way, that it was her reticence, 
her distance, her coldness, which froze his elo- 
quence ; and that to any other lady in the whole 
world he could have poured forth words so full of 
fire that they must have inflamed her to a passion 
like to his own and burnt down every barrier which 
parted her heart from his. Therefore at that mo- 
ment he searched for accusations against her, and 
found a bitter-tasting comfort in every offence that 
she had given him, and made treasure of any scorn- 
ful speech, rescuing himself from the extreme of 
foolishness by such excuse as harshness might 
afford. Now Barbara Quinton had told Mistress 
Nell that I was forward for my station. What 
man could, what man would, lay bare his heart to 
a lady who held him to be forward for his station ? 

These meditations took me to my chamber, 
whither I might have gone an hour before, and 
lasted me fully two hours after I had stretched 
myself upon the bed. Then I slept heavily; when 
I woke it was high morning. I lay there a little 
while, thinking with no pleasure of the journey be- 
fore me. Then having risen and dressed hastily, I 
made my way to the room where Nell and I had 
talked the night before. I did not know in what 
mood I should find her, but I desired to see her 
alone and beg her to come to some truce with 
Mistress Quinton, lest our day’s travelling should 
309 


SIMON DALE 


be over thorns. She was not in the room when I 
came there. Looking out of window I perceived 
the coach at the door ; the host was giving an eye 
to the horses, and I hailed him. He ran in and a 
moment later entered the room. 

“ At what hour are we to set out? ” I asked. 

“ When you will,” said he. 

“ Have you no orders then from Mistress 
Gwyn? ” 

“ She left none with me, sir.” 

“ Left none? ” I cried, amazed. 

A smile came on his lips and his eyes twinkled. 

“Now I thought it!” said he with a chuckle. 
“ You didn’t know her purpose? She has hired a 
post-chaise and set out two hours ago, telling me 
that you and the other lady would travel as well 
without her, and that, for her part, she was weary 
of both of you. But she left a message for you. 
See, it lies there on the table.” 

A little packet was on the table; I took it up. 
The innkeeper’s eyes were fixed on me in obvious 
curiosity and amusement. I was not minded to 
afford him more entertainment than I need, and 
bade him begone before I opened the paeket. He 
withdrew reluctantly. Then I unfastened Nell’s 
parcel. It contained ten guineas wrapped in white 
paper, and on the inside of the paper was written 
in a most laborious awkward scrawl (I fear the 
execution of it gave poor Nell much pains), “In 
pay for your dagger. E. G.” It was all of her 
hand I had ever seen ; the brief message seemed to 
speak a sadness in her. Perhaps I deluded my< 
self; her skill with the pen would not serve her 
far. She had gone, that was the sum of it, and I 
was grieved that she had gone in this fashion. 

310 


THE VICAR’S PROPOSITION 


With the piece of paper still in my hands, the 
guineas also still standing in a little pile on the 
table, I turned to find Barbara Quinton in the 
doorway of the room. Her air was timid, as 
though she were not sure of welcome, and some- 
thing of the night’s embarrassment still hung about 
her. She looked round as though in search for 
somebody. 

“ I am alone here,” said I, answering her glance. 

“ But she? Mistress ? ” 

“She’s gone,” said I. “I haven’t seen her. 
The innkeeper tells me that she has been gone 
these two hours. But she has left us the coach 

and ” I walked to the window and looked out. 

“ Yes, and my horse is there, and her servant with 
his horse.” 

“ But why is she gone? Hasn’t she left ? ” 

“ She has left ten guineas also,” said I, pointing 
to the pile on the table. 

“ And no reason for her going ? ” 

“ Unless this be one,” I answered, holding out the 
piece of paper. 

“ I won’t read it,” said Barbara. 

“ It says only, ‘ In pay for your dagger.’ ” 

“ Then it gives no reason.” 

“ Why, no, it gives none,” said 1. 

“It’s very strange,” murmured Barbara, looking 
not at me but past me. 

Now to me, when I pondered over the matter, it 
did not seem altogether strange. Yet where lay the 
need to tell Mistress Barbara why it seemed not 
altogether strange ? Indeed I could not have told 
it easily, seeing that, look at it how you will, the 
thing was not easy to set forth to Mistress Barbara. 
Doubtless it was but a stretch of fancy to see any 
311 


SIMON DALE 


meaning in Nell’s mention of the dagger, save the 
plain one that lay on the surface ; yet had she been 
given to conceits, she might have used the dagger 
as a figure for some wound that I had dealt her. 

“No doubt some business called her,” said I rath- 
er lamely. “ She has shown much consideration in 
leaving her coach for us.” 

“ And the money ? Shall you use it ? ” 

“ What choice have I ? ” 

Barbara’s glance was on the pile of guineas. I 
put out my hand, took them up, and stowed them 
in my purse ; as I did this, my eye wandered to 
the window. Barbara followed my look and my 
thought also. I had no mind that this new provis- 
ion for our needs should share the fate of my last 
guinea. 

“You needn’t have said that!” cried Barbara, 
flushing; although, as may be seen, I had said 
nothing. 

“ I will repay the money in due course,” said I, 
patting my purse. 

W e made a meal together in unbroken silence. 
No more was said of Mistress Nell; our encounter 
in the corridor last night seemed utterly forgotten. 
Relieved of a presence that w^as irksome to her and 
would have rendered her apprehensive of fresh shame 
at every place we passed through, Mistress Barbara 
should have shown an easier bearing and more 
gaiety; so I supposed and hoped. The fact refuted 
me ; silent, cold, and distant, she seemed in even 
greater discomfort than when we had a companion. 
Her mood called up a like in me, and I began to 
ask myself whether for this I had done well to drive 
poor Nell away. 

Thus in gloom we made ready to set forth. My- 
312 


THE VICAR’S PROPOSITION 


self prepared to mount my horse, I offered to hand 
Barbara into the coach. Then she looked at me ; I 
noted it, for she had not done so much for an hour 
past ; a slight colour came into her cheeks,she glanced 
round the interior of the coach ; it was indeed wide 
and spacious for one traveller. 

“ You ride to-day also ? ” she asked. 

The sting that had tormented me was still alive ; 
I could not deny myself the pleasure of a retort so 
apt. I bowed low and deferentially, saying, ‘‘ I have 
learnt my station. I would not be so forward as 
to sit in the coach with you.” The flush on her 
cheeks deepened suddenly; she stretched out her 
hand a little way towards me, and her lips parted 
as though she were about to speak. But her hand 
fell again, and her lips shut on unuttered words. 

“ As you will,” she said coldly. “ Pray bid them 
set out.” 

Of our journey I will say no more. There is 
nothing in it that I take pleasure in telling, and to 
write its history would be to accuse either Barbara 
or myself. For two days we travelled together, she 
in her coach, I on horseback. Come to London, we 
were told that my lord was at Hatchstead ; having 
despatched our borrowed equipage and servant to 
their mistress, and with them the amount of my 
debt and a most grateful message, we proceeded on 
our road, Barbara in a chaise, I again riding. All 
the way Barbara shunned me as though I had the 
plague, and I on my side showed no desire to be 
with a companion so averse from my society. On 
my life I was driven half-mad, and had that night 
at Canterbury come again — well. Heaven be thanked 
that temptation comes sometimes at moments when 
virtue also has attractions, or which of us would 
313 


SIMON DALE 


stand ? And the night we spent on the road, deco- 
rum forbade that we should so much as speak, 
much less sup, together; and the night we lay in 
London, I spent at one end of the town and she at 
the other. At least I showed no forwardness ; to 
that I was sworn, and adhered most obstinately. 
Thus we came to Hatchstead, better strangers than 
ever we had left Dover, and, although safe and 
sound from bodily perils and those wiles of princes 
that had of late so threatened our tranquillity, yet 
both of us as ill in temper as could be conceived. 
Defend me from any such journey again 1 But 
there is no likelihood of such a trial now, alas ! Yes, 
there was a pleasure in it ; it was a battle, and, by 
my faith, it was close drawn between us. 

The chaise stopped at the Manor gates, and I 
rode up to the door of it, cap in hand. Here was 
to be our parting. 

“ I thank you heartily, sir,” said Barbara in a low 
voice, with a bow of her head and a quick glance 
that would not dwell on my sullen face. 

“ My happiness has been to serve you, madame,” 
I returned. “ I grieve only that my escort has been 
so irksome to you.” 

“No,” said Barbara, and she said no more, but 
rolled up the avenue in her chaise, leaving me to 
find my way alone to my mother’s house. 

I sat a few moments on my horse, watching her 
go. Then with an oath I turned away. The sight 
of the gardener’s cottage sent my thoughts back to 
the old days when Cydaria came and caught my 
heart in her butterfly net. It was just there, in the 
meadow by the avenue, that I had kissed her. A 
kiss is a thing lightly given and sometimes lightly 
taken. It was that kiss which Barbara had seen 
314 


THE VICAR’S PROPOSITION 


from the window, and great debate had arisen on 
it. Lightly given, yet leading on to much that I 
did not see, lightly taken, yet perhaps mother to 
some fancies that men would wonder to find in 
Mistress Gwyn. 

“ I’m heartily glad to be here! ” I cried, loosing 
the Vicar’s hand and flinging myself into the high 
arm-chair in the chimney corner. 

My mother received this exclamation as a tribute 
of filial affection, the Vicar treated it as an evidence 
of friendship, my sister Mary saw in it a thanksgiv- 
ing for dehverance from the perils and temptations 
of London and the Court. Let them take it how 
they would ; in truth it was inspired in none of these 
ways, but was purely an expression of relief, first at 
having brought Mistress Barbara safe to the Manor, 
in the second place, at being quit of her society. 

“ I am very curious to learn, Simon,” said the 
Vicar, drawing his chair near mine, and laying his 
hand upon my knee, “what passed at Dover. For 
it seems to me that there, if at any place in the 
world, the prophecy which Betty Nasroth spoke 
concerning you ” 

“You shall know all in good time, sir,” I cried 
impatiently. 

“Should find its fulfilment,” ended the Vicar 
placidly. 

“ Are we not finished with that folly yet ? ” asked 
my mother. 

“ Simon must tell us that,” smiled the Vicar. 

“In good time, in good time,” I cried again. 
“ But tell me first, when did my lord come here 
from London ? ” 

“ Why, a week ago. My lady was sick, and the 
physician prescribed the air of the country for her. 

315 


SIMON DALE 

But my lord stayed four days only and then was 
gone again.” 

I started and sat upright in my seat. 

“ What, isn’t he here now ? ” I asked eagerly. 

‘‘Why, Simon,” said my good mother with a 
laugh, “ we looked to get news from you, and now 
we have news to give you I The King has sent for 
my lord ; I saw his message. It was most flatter- 
ing and spoke of some urgent and great business on 
which the King desired my lord’s immediate pres- 
ence and counsel. So he set out two days ago to 
join the King with a large train of servants, 
leaving behind my lady, who was too sick to 
travel.” 

I was surprised at these tidings and fell into deep 
consideration. What need had the King of my 
lord’s counsel, and so suddenly ? What had been 
done at Dover would not be opened to Lord Quin- 
ton’s ear. Was he summoned as a Lord of Coun- 
cil or as his daughter’s father? For by now the 
King must know certain matters respecting my 
lord’s daughter and a humble gentleman who had 
striven to serve her so far as his station enabled 
him and without undue forwardness. We might 
well have passed my lord’s coach on the road and 
not remarked it among the many that met us as 
we drew near to London in the evening. I had not 
observed his liveries, but that went for nothing. I 
took heed of little on that journey save the bear- 
ing of Mistress Barbara. Where lay the meaning 
of my lord’s summons? It came into my mind 
that M. de Perrencourt had sent messengers from 
Calais, and that the King might be seeking to fulfil 
in another way the bargain whose accomplishment 
I had hindered. The thought was new life to me. 

316 


THE VICAR’S PROPOSITION 


If my work were not finished — . I broke off; the 
Vicar’s hand was on my knee again. 

“ Touching the prophecy ” he began. 

“ Indeed, sir, in good time you shall know all. 
It is fulfiUed.” 

“ F ulfilled ! ” he cried rapturously. “ Then, Simon, 
fortune smiles ? ” 

“ No,” I retorted, “she frowns most damnably.” 

To swear is a sin, to swear before ladies is bad 
manners, to swear in talking to a clergyman is 
worst of all. But while my mother and my sister 
drew away in offence (and I hereby tender them an 
apology never yet made) the Vicar only smiled. 

“ A plague on such prophecies,” said I sourly. 

“ Yet if it be fulfilled ! ” he murmured. For he 
held more by that than by any good fortune of 
mine; me he loved but his magic was dearer to 
him. “ You must indeed tell me,” he urged. 

My mother approached somewhat timidly. 

“You are come to stay with us, Simon?” she 
asked. 

“ For the term of my life, so far as I know, 
madame,” said I. 

“ Thanks to God,” she murmured softly. 

There is a sort of saying that a mother speaks 
and a son hears to his shame and wonder ! Her 
heart was all in me, while mine was far away. 
Despondency had got hold of me. Fortune, in her 
merriest mood, seeming bent on fooling me fairly, 
had opened a door and shown me the prospect of 
fine doings and high ambitions realised. The 
glimpse had been but brief, and the tricky creature 
shut the door in my face with a laugh. Betty 
Nasroth’s prophecy was fulfilled, but its accom- 
plishment left me in no better state ; nay, I should 
21 317 


SIMON DALE 


be compelled to count myself lucky if I came off 
unhurt and were not pursued by the anger of those 
great folk whose wills and whims I had crossed. 
I must lie quiet in Hatchstead, and to lie quiet in 
Hatchstead was hell to me — ay, hell, unless by 
some miracle (whereof there was but one way) it 
should turn to heaven. That was not for me ; I 
was denied youth’s sovereign balm for iU-starred 
hopes and ambitions gone awry. 

The Vicar and I were alone now, and I could not 
but humour him by telling what had passed. He 
heard with rare enjoyment; and although his in- 
terest declined from its zenith so soon as I had told 
the last of the prophecy, he listened to the rest 
with twinkling eyes. No comment did he make, 
but took snuff frequently. I, my tale done, fell 
again into meditation. Yet I had been fired by 
the rehearsal of my own story, and my thoughts 
were less dark in hue. The news concerning Lord 
Quinton stirred me afresh. My aid might again be 
needed; my melancholy was tinted with pleasant 
pride as I declared to myself that it should not be 
lacking, for all that I had been used as one would 
not use a faithful dog, much less a gentleman who, 
doubtless by no merit of his own but yet most 
certainly, had been of no small service. To confess 
the truth, I was so persuaded of my value that I 
looked for every moment to bring me a summons, 
and practised under my breath the terms, respectful 
yet resentful, in which I would again place my arm 
and sword at Barbara’s disposal. 

“ You loved this creature Nell ? ” asked the Vicar 
suddenly. 

“ Ay,” said I, “ I loved her.” 

“ You love her no more ? ” 

318 


THE VICAR’S PROPOSITION 


“ Why, no,” I answered, mustering a cool smile. 
“ Folly such as that goes by with youth.” 

“ Your age is twenty-four ? ” 

“Yes, I am twenty- four.” 

“ And you love her no longer ? ” 

“ I tell you, no longer, sir.” 

The Vicar opened his box and took a large 
pinch. 

“Then,” said he, the pinch being between his 
finger and thumb and just half-way on the road 
to his nose, “you love some other woman, Si- 
mon.” 

He spoke not as a man who asks a question nor 
even as one who hazards an opinion; he declared 
a fact and needed no answer to confirm him. “ Y es, 
you love some other woman, Simon,” said he, and 
there left the matter. 

“ I don’t,” I cried indignantly. Had I told my- 
self a hundred times that I was not in love to be 
told by another that I was ? True, I might have 
been in love, had not 

“Ah, who goes there?” exclaimed the Vicar, 
springing nimbly to the window and looking out 
with eagerness. “ I seem to know the gentleman. 
Come, Simon, look.” 

I obeyed him. A gentleman, attended by two 
servants, rode past rapidly ; twilight had begun to 
fall, but the light served well enough to show me 
who the stranger was. He rode hard and his horse’s 
head was towards the Manor gates. 

“ I think it is my Lord Carford, ” said the Vicar. 
“ He goes to the Manor, as I think.” 

“ I think it is and I think he does,” said I ; and 
for a single moment I stood there in the middle of 
the room, hesitating, wavering, miserable. 

319 


SIMON DALE 


“What ails you, Simon? Why shouldn’t my 
Lord Carford go to the Manor ? ” cried the Vicar. 

“ Let him go to the devil 1 ” I cried and I seized 
my hat from the table where it lay. 

The Vicar turned to me with a smile on his lips. 
“Go, lad,” said he, “and let me not hear you 
again deny my propositions. They are founded on 

an extensive observation of humanity and ” 

Well, I know not to this day on what besides. 
For I was out of the house before the Vicar com- 
pleted his statement of the authority that underlay 
his propositions. 


820 


CHAPTER XXI 


THE STRANGE CONJUNCTURE OF TWO GENTLEMEN 

I HAVE heard it said that King Charles laughed 
most heartily when he learnt how a certain gentle- 
man had tricked M. de Perrencourt and carried off 
from his clutches the lady who should have gone 
to prepare for the Duchess of York’s visit to the 
Court of France. “ This Uriah will not be set in 
the forefront of the battle,” said he, “ and there- 
fore David can’t have his way.” He would have 
laughed, I think, even although my action had 
thwarted his own schemes, but the truth is that he 
had so wrought on that same devotion to her relig- 
ion which, according to Mistress Nell, inspired 
Mile, de Qu^rouaille that by the time the news 
came from Calais he had little doubt of success for 
himself although his friend M. de Perrencourt had 
been baffled. He had made his treaty, he had got 
his money, and the lady, if she would not stay, yet 
promised to return. The King then was well con- 
tent, and found perhaps some sly satisfaction in 
the defeat of the great Prince whose majesty and 
dignity made any reverse which befell him an 
amusement to less potent persons. In any case 
the King laughed, then grew grave for a moment 
while he declared that his best efforts should not 
be wanting to reclaim Mistress Quinton to a sense 
of her duty, and then laughed again. Yet he set 
about reclaiming her, although with no great 
energy or fierceness ; and when he heard that 
821 


SIMON DALE 


Monmouth had other views of the lady’s duty, he 
shrugged his shoulders, saying, “ Nay, if there be 
two Davids, 111 wager a crown on Uriah.” 

It is easy to follow a man to the door of a house, 
but if the door be shut after him and the pursuer 
not invited to enter, he can but stay outside. So 
it fell out with me, and being outside I did not 
know what passed within nor how my Lord Car- 
ford fared with Mistress Barbara. I flung myself 
in deep chagrin on the grass of the Manor Park, 
cursing my fate, myself, and if not Barbara, yet 
that perversity which was in all women and, by 
logic, even in Mistress Barbara. But although I 
had no part in it, the play went on and how it pro- 
ceeded I learnt afterward; let me now leave the 
stage that I have held too long and pass out of 
sight till my cue calls me again. 

This evening then, my lady, who was very sick, 
being in her bed, and Mistress Barbara, although 
not sick, very weary of her solitude and longing 
for the time when she could betake herself to the 
same refuge (for there is a pride that forbids us to 
seek bed too early, however strongly we desire it) 
there came a great knocking at the door of the 
house. A gentleman on horseback and accom- 
panied by two servants was without and craved 
immediate audience of her ladyship. Hearing that 
she was abed, he asked for Mistress Barbara and 
obtained entrance; yet he would not give his 
name, but declared that he came on urgent busi- 
ness from Lord Quinton. The excuse served, and 
Barbara received him. With surprise she found 
Carford bowing low before her. I had told her 
enough concerning him to prevent her welcome 
being warm. I would have told her more, had 
322 


THE STRANGE CONJUNCTURE 


she afforded me the opportunity. The imperfect 
knowledge that she had, caused her to accuse him 
rather of a timidity in face of powerful rivals than 
of any deliberate design to set his love below his 
ambition and to use her as his tool. Had she 
known all I knew she would not have listened to 
him. Even now she made some pretext for declin' 
ing conversation that night and would have with- 
drawn at once ; but he stayed her retreat, earnestly 
praying her for her father’s sake and her own to 
hear his message, and asserting that she was in 
more danger than she was aware of. Thus he per- 
suaded her to be seated. 

“What is your message from my father, my 
lord?” she asked coldly, but not uncivilly. 

“ Madame, I have none,” he answered with a 
bluntness not ill calculated. “ I used the excuse 
to gain admission, fearing that my own devotion 
to you would not suffice, well as you know it. 
But although I have no message, I think that you 
will have one soon. Nay, you must listen.” For 
she had risen. 

“ I listen, my lord, but I will listen standing.” 

“You’re hard to me, Mistress Barbara,” he said. 
“ But take the tidings how you will ; only pay heed 
to them.” He drew nearer to her and continued, 
“ To-morrow a message will come from your 
father. Y ou have had none for many days ? ” 

“Alas, no,” said she. “We were both on the 
road and could send no letter to one another.” 

“ To-morrow one comes. May I tell you what 
it will say ? ” 

“ How can you know what it will say, my 
lord ? ” 

“ I will stand by the event, ” said he sturdily. 

323 


SIMON DALE 


‘‘ The coming of the letter will prove me right or 
wrong. It will bid your mother and you accom- 
pany the messenger ” 

“ My mother cannot ” 

“ Or, if your mother cannot, you alone, with 
some waiting- woman, to Dover.” 

“To Dover? ’’cried Barbara. “For what pur- 
pose?” She shrank away from him, as though 
alarmed by the very name of the place whence she 
had escaped. 

He looked full in her face and answered slowly 
and significantly : 

“ Madame goes back to France, and you are to 
go with her.” 

Barbara caught at a chair near her and sank into 
it. He stood over her now, speaking quickly and 
urgently. 

“You must listen,” he said, “and lose no time 
in acting. A French gentleman, by name M. de 
Fontelles, will be here to-morrow ; he carries your 
father’s letter and is sent to bring you to Dover.” 

“ My father bids me come ? ” she cried. 

“ His letter will convey the request,” answered 
Carford. 

“ Then I will go,” said she. “ I can’t come to 
harm with him, and when I have told him all, he 
won’t allow me to go to France.” For as yet my 
lord did not know of what had befallen his daugh- 
ter, nor did my lady, whose sickness made her unfit 
to be burdened with such troublesome matters. 

“ Indeed you would come to no harm with your 
father, if you found your father,” said Carford. 
‘ ‘ Come, I will tell you. Before you reach Dover 
my lord will have gone from there. As soon as 
his letter to you was sent the King made a pretext 
324 


THE STRANGE CONJUNCTURE 


to despatch him into Cornwall; he wrote again to 
tell you of his journey and bid you not come to 
Dover till he sends for you. This letter he en- 
trusted to a messenger of my Lord Arlington’s 
who was taking the road for London. But the 
Secretary’s messengers know when to hasten and 
when to loiter on the way. You are to have set 
out before the letter arrives.” 

Barbara looked at him in bewilderment and ter- 
ror; he was to all seeming composed and spoke 
with an air of honest sincerity. 

“ To speak plainly, it is a trick,” he said, “ to in- 
duce you to return to Dover. This M. de Fon- 
telles has orders to bring you at all hazards and is 
armed with the King’s authority in case my lord’s 
bidding should not be enough.” 

She sat for a while in helpless dismay. Carford 
had the wisdom not to interrupt her thoughts ; he 
knew that she was seeking for a plan of escape and 
was willing to let her find that there was none. 

“ When do you say that M. de Fontelles will be 
here? ” she asked at last. 

“ Late to-night or early to-morrow. He rested 
a few hours in London, while I rode through, else 
I shouldn’t have been here before him.” 

“ And why are you come, my lord ? ” she asked. 

“ To serve you, madame,” he answered simply. 

She drew herself up, saying haughtily, 

“ You were not so ready to serve me at Dover.” 

Carford was not disconcerted by an attack that 
he must have foreseen ; he had the parry ready for 
the thrust. 

“ From the danger that I knew I guarded you, 
the other I did not know.” Then with a burst of 
well-feigned indignation he cried, “ By Heaven, 
325 


SIMON DALE 


but for me the French King would have been no 
peril to you ; he would have come too late.” 

She understood him and flushed painfully. 

“ When the enemy is mighty,” he pursued, “ we 
must fight by guile, not force ; when we can’t op- 
pose we must delay; we must check where we 
can’t stop. You know my meaning : to you I 
couldn’t put it more plainly. But now I have 
spoken plainly to the Duke of Monmouth, praying 
something from him in my own name as well as 
yours. He is a noble prince, madame, and his of- 
fence should be pardoned by you who caused it. 
Had I thwarted him openly, he would have been 
my enemy and yours. Now he is your friend and 
mine.” 

The defence was clever enough to bridle her in- 
dignation. He followed up his advantage swiftly, 
leaving her no time to pry for a weak spot in his 
pleading. 

“ By Heaven,” he cried, “ let us lose no time on 
past troubles. I was to blame, if you will, in ex- 
ecution, though not, I swear, in intention. But 
here and now is the danger, and I am come to 
guard you from it.” 

‘‘Then I am much in your debt, my lord,” said 
she, still doubtful, yet in her trouble eager to be- 
lieve him honest. 

“Nay,” said he, “all that I have, madame, is 
yours, and you can’t be in debt to your slave.” 

I do not doubt that in this speech his passion 
seemed real enough, and was the more effective 
from having been suppressed till now, so that it 
appeared to break forth against his will. Indeed 
although he was a man in whom ambition held 
place of love, yet he loved her and would have 
326 


THE STRANGE CONJUNCTURE 


made her his for passion’s sake as well as for the 
power that he hoped to wield through her means. 
I hesitate how to judge him; there are many men 
who take their colour from the times, as some in- 
sects from the plants they feed on ; in honest times 
they would be honest, in debauched they follow 
the evil fashion, having no force to stand by 
themselves. Perhaps this lord was one of this kid- 
ney. 

“ It’s an old story, this love of mine,” said he in 
gentler tones. “ Twice you have heard it, and a 
lover who speaks twice must mourn once at least; 
yet the second time I think you came nearer to 
heeding it. May I tell it once again ? ” 

“ Indeed it is not the time ” she began in an 

agitated voice. 

“ Be your answer what it may, I am your ser- 
vant,” he protested. “ My hand and heart are 
yours, although yours be another’s.” 

“There is none — I am free — ” she murmured. 
His eyes were on her and she nerved herself to 
calm, saying, “ There is nothing of what you sup- 
pose. But my disposition towards you, my lord, 
has not changed.” 

He let a moment go by before he answered her ; 
he made it seem as though emotion forbade earlier 
speech. Then he said gravely : 

“ I am grieved from my heart to hear it, and I 
pray Heaven that an early day may bring me an- 
other answer. God forbid that I should press 
your inclination now. You may accept my service 
freely, although you do not accept my love. Mis- 
tress Barbara, you’ll come with me ? ’ ’ 

“ Come with you ? ” she cried. 

“ My lady will come also, and we three together 
327 


SIMON DALE 


will seek your father in Cornwall. On my faith, 
madame, there is no safety but in flight.” 

“ My mother lies too sick for travelling. Didn’t 
you hear it from my father ? ” 

“ I haven’t seen my lord. My knowledge of his 
letter came through the Duke of Monmouth, and 
although he spoke there of my lady’s sickness, I 
trusted that she had recovered.” 

“ My mother cannot travel. It is impossible.” 

He came a step nearer her. 

“ Fontelles will be here to-morrow, ’ ’ he said. 

“ If you are here then ! Yet if there be any 

other whose aid you could seek ? ” Again he 

paused, regarding her intently. 

She sat in sore distress, twisting her hands in 
her lap. One there was, and not far away. Yet 
to send for him crossed her resolution and stung 
her pride most sorely. We had parted in anger, 
she and I I had blamed my share in the quarrel 
bitterly enough, it is likely she had spared herself 
no more ; yet the more fault is felt the harder 
comes its acknowledgment. 

“ Is Mr. Dale in Hatchstead ? ” asked Carford 
boldly and bluntly. 

“ I don’t know where he is. He brought me here, 
but I have heard nothing from him since we parted.” 

“ Then surely he is gone again ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” said Barbara. 

Carford must have been a dull man indeed not 
to discern how the matter lay. There is no better 
time to press a lady than when she is chagrined 
with a rival and all her pride is under arms to fight 
her inclination. 

‘‘ Surely, or he could not have shown you such 
indifference — nay, I must call it discourtesy.” 

328 


THE STRANGE CONJUNCTURE 


“ He did me service.” 

“ A gentleman, madame, should grow more, not 
less, assiduous when he is so happy as to have put 
a lady under obligation.” 

He had said enough, and restrained himself from 
a further attack. 

“ What will you do ? ” he went on. 

‘‘ Alas, what can I do ? ” Then she cried, “ This 
M. de Fontelles can’t carry me off against my 

“ He has the King’s commands,” said Carford. 
“ Who will resist him ? ” 

She sprang to her feet and turned on him quick- 

ly- 

“ Why you,” she said. “ Alone with you I can- 
not and will not go. But you are my — you are 
ready to serve me. You will resist M. de Fon- 
telles for my sake, ay, and for my sake the King’s 
commands.” 

Carford stood still, amazed at the sudden change 
in her manner. He had not conceived this de- 
mand, and it suited him very ill. The stroke was 
too bold for his temper; the King was interested 
in this affair, and it might go hard with the man 
who upset his plan and openly resisted his messen- 
ger. Carford had calculated on being able to car- 
ry her off, and thus defeat the scheme under show 
of ignorance. The thing done, and done unwit- 
tingly, might gain pardon; to meet and defy 
the enemy face to face was to stake all his fortune 
on a desperate chance. He was dumb. Barbara’s 
lips curved into a smile that expressed wonder and 
dawning contempt. 

“ You hesitate, sir ? ” she asked. 

“ The danger is great, ” he muttered. 

329 


SIMON DALE 


“You spoke of discourtesy just now, my 
lord ” 

“ You do not lay it to my charge ? ” 

“ Nay, to refuse to face danger for a lady, and a 
lady whom a man loves — you meant that, my 
lord ? — goes by another name. I forgive discour- 
tesy sooner than that other thing, my lord.” 

His face grew white with passion. She accused 
him of cowardice and plainly hinted to him that, if 
he failed her, she would turn to one who was no 
coward, let him be as discourteous and indifferent 
as his sullen disposition made him. I am sorry I 
was not there to see Carford’s face. But he was in 
the net of her challenge now, and a bold front alone 
would serve. 

“ By God, madame,” he cried, “you shall know 
by to-morrow how deeply you wrong me. If my 
head must answer for it, you shall have the proof.” 

‘‘ I thank you, my lord,” said she with a httle 
bow, as though she asked no more than her due 
in demanding that he should risk his head for her. 
“ I did not doubt your answer.” 

“ You shall have no cause, madame,” said he very 
boldly, although he could not control the signs of 
his uneasiness. 

“ Again I thank you,” said she. “ It grows late, 
my lord. By your kindness I shall sleep peacefully 
and without fear. Good-night.” She moved tow- 
ards the door, but turned to him again, saying, 
“ I pray your pardon, but even hospitality must 
give way to sickness. I cannot entertain you 
suitably while my mother lies abed. If you 
lodge at the inn, they will treat you well for my 
father’s sake, and a message from me can reach 
you easily.” 


330 


THE STRANGE CONJUNCTURE 


Carford had strung himself to give the promise; 
whether he would fulfil it or not lay uncertain 
in the future. But for so much as he had done, 
he had a mind to be paid. He came to her, 
and, kneeling, took her hand ; she suffered him to 
kiss it. 

“There is nothing I wouldn’t do to win my 
prize,” he said, fixing his eyes ardently on her 
face. 

“ I have asked nothing but what you seemed to 
offer,” she answered coldly. “ If it be a matter of 
bargain, my lord ” 

“ No, no,” he cried, seeking to catch again at her 
hand as she drew it away and with a curtsey passed 
out. 

Thus she left him without so much as a backward 
glance to presage future favour. So may a lady, 
if she plays her game well, take all and promise 
nothing. 

Carford, refused even a lodging in the house, 
crossed in the plan by which he had reckoned on 
getting Barbara into his power, driven to an enter- 
prise for which he had small liking, and left in utter 
doubt whether the success for which he ran so great 
a risk would profit him, may well have sought the 
inn to which Barbara commended him in no cheer- 
ful mood. I wager he swore a round oath or two 
as he and his servants made their way thither 
through the dark and knocked up the host, who, 
keeping country hours, was already in his bed. It 
cost them some minutes to rouse him, and Carford 
beat most angrily on the door. At last they were 
admitted. And I turned away. 

For I must confess it; I had dogged their steps, 
not able to rest till I saw what would become of 
331 


SIMON DALE 


Carford. Yet we must give love his due; if he takes 
a man into strange places, sometimes he shows him 
things worth his knowing. If I, a lovesick fool, 
had watched a rival into my mistress’ house and 
watched him out of it with devouring jealousy, ay, 
if I had chosen to spend my time beneath the 
Manor windows rather than in my own comfort- 
able chair, why, I had done only what many who are 
now wise and sober gentlemen have done in their 
time. And if once in that same park I had de- 
clared my heart broken for the sake of another lady, 
there are revolutions in hearts as in states, and, after 
the rebels have had their day, the King comes to 
his own again. Nay, I have known some who were 
very loyal to King Charles, and yet said nothing 
hard of Oliver, whose yoke they once had worn. I 
will say nought against my usurper, although the 
Queen may have come to her own again. 

Well, Carford should not have her. I, Simon 
Dale, might be the greatest fool in the King’s do- 
minions, and lie sulking while another stormed the 
citadel on which I longed to plant my flag. But 
the victor should not be Carford. Among gentle- 
men a quarrel is easily come by ; yokels may mouth 
their blowsy sweetheart’s name and fight openly 
for her favour over their mugs of ale ; we quarrel 
on the state of the Kingdom, the fall of the cards, 
the cut of our coats, what you will. Carford and 
I would find a cause without much searching. I 
was so hot that I was within an ace of summoning 
him then and there to show by what right he rode 
so boldly through my native village ; that offence 
would serve as well as any other. Yet prudence 
prevailed. The closed doors of the inn hid the party 
from my sight, and I went on my way, determined 
332 


THE STRANGE CONJUNCTURE 

to be about by cockcrow, lest Carford should steal 
a march. 

But as I went I passed the Vicar’s door. He 
stood on the threshold, smoking his long pipe (the 
good man loved Virginia and gave his love free 
rein in the evening) and gazing at the sky. I tried 
to slink by him, fearing to be questioned ; he caught 
sight of my figure and called me to him ; but he 
made no reference to the manner of our last parting. 

“ Whither away, Simon? ” he asked. 

“ To bed, sir,” said I. 

“ It is well,” said he. “ And whence ? ” 

“ From a walk, sir.” 

His eyes met mine, and I saw them twinkle. 
He waved the stem of his pipe in the air, and said : 

“ Love, Simon, is a divine distemper of the mind, 
wherein it paints bliss with woe’s palate and sees 
heaven from hell.” 

“ You borrow from the poets, sir,” said I surlily. 

‘‘ Nay,” he rejoined, ‘‘the poets from me, or from 
any man who has or has had a heart in him. What, 
Simon, you leave me ? ” For I had turned away. 

“It’s late, sir,” said I, “for the making of 
rhapsodies.” 

“You’ve made yours,” he smiled. “Hark, 
what’s that?” 

As he spoke there came the sound of horse’s 
hoofs. A moment later the figures of two mounted 
men emerged from the darkness. By some im- 
pulse, I know not what, I ran behind the Vicar and 
sheltered myself in the porch at his back. Car- 
ford’s arrival had set my mind astir again, and new 
events found ready welcome. The Vicar stepped 
out a pace into the road with his hand over his eyes, 
and peered at the strangers. 

22 333 


SIMON DALE 


What do you call this place, sir ? ” came in a 
loud voice from the nearer of the riders. I started 
at the voice; it had struck on my ears before, and 
no Englishman owned it. 

“ It is the village of Hatchstead, at your service,” 
answered the Vicar. 

Is there an inn in it ? ” 

“ Ride for half a mile and you’ll find a good one.” 

“ I thank you, sir.” 

I could hold myself in no longer, but pushed the 
Vicar aside and ran out into the road. The horse- 
men had already turned their faces towards the inn, 
and walked along slowly, as though they were 
weary. “Good-night,” cried the Vicar — whether 
to them or to me or to all creation I know not. 
The door closed on him. I stood for an instant, 
watching the retreating form of the man who had 
enquired the way. A spirit of high excitement 
came on me ; it might be that all was not finished, 
and that Betty Nasroth’s prophecy should not bind 
the future in fetters. For there at the inn was Car- 
ford, and here, if I did not err, was the man whom 
my knowledge of French had so perplexed in the 
inn at Canterbury. 

And Carford knew Fontelles. On what errand 
did they come ? W ere they friends to one another 
or foes ? If friends, they should find an enemy ; 
if foes, there was another to share their battle. I 
could not tell the meaning of this strange conjunc- 
ture whereby the two came to Hatchstead; yet my 
guess was not far out, and I hailed the prospect that 
it gave with a fierce exultation. Nay, I laughed 
aloud, but first knew that I laughed when suddenly 
M. de Fontelles turned in his saddle, crying in 
French to his servant : 


334 


THE STRANGE CONJUNCTURE 


‘ ‘ What was that ? ” 

“ Something laughed,” answered the fellow in an 
alarmed voice. 

“ Something? You mean somebody.” 

“ I know not, it sounded strange.” 

I had stepped in under the hedge when Fontelles 
turned, but his puzzle and the servant s superstitious 
fear wrought on my excitement. Nothing would 
serve me but to play a jest on the Frenchman. I 
laughed again loudly. 

“ God save us ! ” cried the servant, and I make 
no doubt he crossed himself most piously. 

“ It’s some madman got loose,” said M. de Fon- 
telles scornfully. “ Come, let’s get on.” 

It was a boy’s trick — a very boy’s trick. Save 
that I set down everything I would not tell it. I 
put my hands to my mouth and bellowed : 

“ II vient ! ” 

An oath broke from Fontelles. I darted into 
the middle of the road and for a moment stood 
there, laughing again. He had wheeled his horse 
round, but did not advance towards me. I take it 
that he was amazed, or, it may be, searching a be- 
wildered memory. 

“ II vient ! ” I cried again in my folly, and, turn- 
ing, ran down the road at my best speed, laughing 
still. Fontelles made no effort to follow me, yet 
on I ran, till I came to my mother’s house. Stop- 
ping there, panting and breathless, I cried in the 
exuberance of triumph ; 

“ Now she’ll have need of me ! ” 

Certainly the thing the Vicar spoke of is a dis- 
temper. Whether divine or of what origin I will 
not have judged by that night’s prank of mine. 

“ They’ll do very well together at the inn, ” I 
laughed, as I flung myself on my bed. 

335 


CHAPTER XXII 


THE DEVICE OF LORD CARFORD 

It is not my desire to assail, nor is it my part to 
defend, the reputation of the great. There is no 
such purpose in anything that I have written here. 
History is their judge, and our own weakness their 
advocate. Some said, and many believed, that 
Madame brought the young French lady in her 
train to Dover with the intention that the thing 
should happen which happened. I had rather hold, 
if it be possible to hold, that a Princess so gracious 
and so unfortunate meant innocently, and was 
cajoled or overborne by the persuasions of her 
kinsmen, and perhaps by some specious pretext of 
State policy. In like manner I am reluctant to 
think that she planned harm for Mistress Barbara, 
towards whom she had a true affection, and I will 
read in an honest sense, if I can, the letter which 
M. de Fontelles brought with him to Hatchstead. 
In it Madame touched with a light discretion on 
what had passed, deplored with pretty gravity the 
waywardness of men, and her own simplicity which 
made her a prey to their devices and rendered her 
less useful to her friends than she desired to be. 
Yet now she was warned, her eyes were open, she 
would guard her own honour and that of any who 
would trust to her. Nay, he himself, M. de Per- 
rencourt, was penitent (even as was the Duke of 
Monmouth !), and had sworn to trouble her and her 
friends no more. Would not then her sweet Mis- 
336 


THE DEVICE OF LORD CARFORD 


tress Barbara, with whom she vowed she had fallen 
so mightily in love, come back to her and go with 
her to France, and be with her until the Duchess 
of York came, and, in good truth, as much longer 
as Barbara would linger, and Barbara’s father in his 
kindness suffer ? So ran the letter, and it seemed 
an honest letter. But I do not know; and if it 
were honest, yet who dared trust to it? Grant 
Madame the best of will, where lay her power to 
resist M. de Perrencourt ? But M. de Perrencourt 
was penitent. Ay, his penitence was for having 
let the lady go, and would last until she should be 
in his power again. 

Let the intent of the letter he carried be what it 
might, M. de Fontelles, a gentleman of courage 
and high honour, believed his business honest. He 
had not been at Dover, and knew nothing of what 
had passed there; if he were an instrument in 
wicked schemes, he did not know the mind of those 
who employed him. He came openly to Hatch- 
stead on an honourable mission, as he conceived, 
and bearing an invitation which should give great 
gratification to the lady to whom it was addressed. 
Madame did Mistress Quinton the high compli- 
ment of desiring her company, and would doubtless 
recompense her well for the service she asked. 
Fontelles saw no more and asked no more. In 
perfect confidence and honesty he set about his 
task, not imagining that he had been sent on an 
errand with which any man could reproach him, or 
with a purpose that gave any the right of question- 
ing his actions. Nor did my cry of “ II vienV' 
change this mood in him. When he collected his 
thoughts and recalled the incident in which those 
words had played a part before, he saw in them the 
337 


SIMON DALE 


challenge of someone who had perhaps penetrated 
a State secret, and was ill-affected towards the 
King and the Kings policy; but, being unaware of 
any connection between Mistress Barbara and M. 
de Perrencourt, he did not associate the silly cry 
with the object of his present mission. So also, on 
hearing that a gentleman was at the inn (Carford 
had not given his name) and had visited the Manor, 
he was in no way disquieted, but ready enough to 
meet any number of gentlemen without fearing 
their company or their scrutiny. 

Gaily and courteously he presented himself to 
Barbara. Her mother lay still in bed, and she re- 
ceived him alone in the room looking out on the 
terrace. With a low bow and words of deference 
he declared his errand, and delivered to her the letter 
he bore from Madame, making bold to add his own 
hopes that Mistress Quinton would not send him 
back unsuccessful, but let him win the praise of a 
trustworthy messenger. Then he twirled his mous- 
taches, smiled gallantly, and waited with all com- 
posure while she read the letter. Indeed he de- 
serves some pity, for women are not wont to spend 
much time on reasoning in such a case. When a 
man comes on a business which they suspect to 
be evil, they make no ado about holding him a 
party to it, and that without inquiring whether 
he knows the thing to which he is setting his 
hand. 

Barbara read her letter through once and a sec- 
ond time ; then, without a word to Fontelles, aye, 
not so much as bidding him be seated, she called a 
servant and sent him to the inn to summon Car- 
ford to her. She spoke low, and the Frenchman 
did nokbear. When they were again alone togeth- 
338 


THE DEVICE OF LORD CARFORD 


er, Barbara walked to the window, and stood there 
looking out. Fontelles, growing puzzled and ill at 
ease, waited some moments before he ventured to 
address her ; her air was not such as to encourage 
him ; her cheek was reddened and her eyes were in- 
dignant. Yet at last he plucked up his courage. 

“ I trust, madame,” said he, “ that I may carry 
the fairest of answers back with me ? ” 

“What answer is that, sir?” she asked, half- 
turning to him with a scornful glance. 

“Yourself, madame, if you will so honour me,” 
he answered, bowing. “ Y our coming would be the 
answer best pleasing to Madame, and the best ful- 
filment of my errand.” 

She looked at him coolly for a moment or two, 
and then said : 

“ I have sent for a gentleman who will advise me 
on my answer.” 

M. de Fontelles raised his brows, and replied 
somewhat stiffly, 

“You are free, madame, to consult whom you 
will, although I had hoped that the matter needed 
but little consideration.” 

She turned full on him in a fury. 

“ I thank you for your judgment of me, sir,” she 
cried. “ Or is it that you think me a fool to be 
blinded by this letter ? ” 

“ Before heaven ” began the puzzled gentle- 

man. 

“ I know, sir, in what esteem a woman’s honour 
is held in your country and at your King’s 
Court.” 

“ In as high, madame, as in your country and at 
your Court.” 

“Yes, that’s true. God help me, that’s true! 

339 


SIMON DALE 


But we are not at Court now, sir. Hasn’t it crossed 
your mind that such an errand as yours may be 
dangerous ? ” 

“ I had not thought it,” said he with a smile 
and a shrug. ‘‘ But, pardon me, I do not fear the 
danger.” 

“ Neither danger nor disgrace ? ” she sneered. 

Fontelles flushed. 

“ A lady, madame, may say what she pleases,” he 
remarked with a bow. 

“ Oh, enough of pretences,” she cried. “ Shall we 
speak openly ? ” 

“With aU my heart, madame,” said he, lost be- 
tween anger and bewilderment. 

For a moment it seemed as though she would 
speak, but the shame of open speech was too great 
for her. In his ignorance and wonder he could do 
nothing to aid her. 

“ I won’t speak of it,” she said. “ It’s a man’s 
part to tell you the truth, and to ask account from 
you. I won’t soil my lips with it.” 

Fontelles took a step towards her, seeking how 
he could assuage a fury that he did not understand. 

“ As God lives ” he began gravely. Barbara 

would not give him opportunity. 

“I pray you,” she cried, “stand aside and allow 
me to pass. I will not stay longer with you. Let 
me pass to the door, sir. I’ll send a gentleman to 
speak with you.” 

Fontelles, deeply offended, utterly at a loss, flung 
the door open for her and stood aside to let her pass. 

“ Madame,” he said, “ it must be that you mis- 
apprehend.” 

“ Misapprehend? Yes, or apprehend too clearly ! ” 

“ As I am a gentleman ” 

340 


THE DEVICE OF LORD CARFORD 


“ I do not grant it, sir,” she interrupted. 

He was silent then; bowing again, he drew a 
pace farther back. She stood for a moment, looking 
scornfully at him. Then with a curtsey she bade 
him farewell and passed out, leaving him in as sad 
a condition as ever woman’s way left man since the 
world began. 

Now, for reasons that have been set out. Car- 
ford received his summons with small pleasure, and 
obeyed it so leisurely that M. de Fontelles had more 
time than enough in which to rack his brains for 
the meaning of Mistress Barbara’s taunts. But he 
came no nearer the truth, and was reduced to staring 
idly out of the window till the gentleman who was 
to make the matter plain should arrive. Thus he 
saw Carford coming up to the house on foot, slowly 
and heavily, with a gloomy face and a nervous air. 
Fontelles uttered an exclamation of joy ; he had 
known Carford, and a friend’s aid would put him 
right with this hasty damsel who denied him even 
the chance of self-defence. He was aware also that, 
in spite of his outward devotion to the Duke of 
Monmouth, Carford was in reality of the French 
party. So he was about to run out and welcome 
him, when his steps were stayed by the sight of 
Mistress Barbara herself, who flew to meet the new- 
comer with every sign of eagerness. Carford sa- 
luted her, and the pair entered into conversation on 
the terrace, Fontelles watching them from the win- 
dow. To his fresh amazement, the interview seemed 
hardly less fierce than his own had been. The lady 
appeared to press some course on her adviser, which 
the adviser was loth to take ; she insisted, growing 
angry in manner; he, having fenced for awhile and 
protested, sullenly gave way; he bowed acquies- 
341 


SIMON DALE 


cence while his demeanour asserted disapproval, she 
made nothing of his disapproval and received his 
acquiescence with a scorn little disguised. Carford 
passed on to the house ; Barbara did not follow 
him, but, flinging herself on a marble seat, covered 
her face with her hands and remained there in an 
attitude which spoke of deep agitation and misery. 

“By my faith,” cried honest M. de Fontelles, 
“ this matter is altogether past understanding ! ” 

A moment later Carford entered the room and 
greeted him with great civility. M. de Fontelles 
lost no time in coming to the question ; his griev- 
ance was strong and bitter, and he poured out his 
heart without reserve. Carford listened, saying lit- 
tle, but being very attentive and keeping his shrewd 
eyes on the others face. Indignation carried Fon- 
telles back and forward along the length of the 
room in restless paces ; Carford sat in a chair, quiet 
and wary, drinking in all that the angry gentleman 
said. My Lord Carford was not one who believed 
hastily in the honour and honesty of his fellow-men, 
nor was he prone to expect a simple heart rather 
than a long head ; but soon he perceived that the 
Frenchman was in very truth ignorant of what lay 
behind his mission, and that Barbara’s usage of him 
caused genuine and not assumed offence. The rev- 
elation set my lord a- thinking. 

“ And she sends for you to advise her ? ” cried 
Fontelles. “That, my friend, is good; you can 
advise her only in one fashion.” 

“ I don’t know that,” said Carford, feeling his 
way. 

“ It is because you don’t know all. I have spoken 
gently to her, seeking to win her by persuasion. 
But to you I may speak plainly. I have direct 
842 


THE DEVICE OF LORD CARFORD 

orders from the King to bring her and to suffer 
no man to stop me. Indeed, my dear lord, there 
is no choice open to you. You wouldn’t resist the 
King’s command ? ” 

Yet Barbara demanded that he should resist even 
the King’s command. Carford said nothing, and 
the impetuous Frenchman ran on : 

‘‘Nay, it would be the highest offence to myself 
to hinder me. Indeed, my lord, all my regard for 
you could not make me suffer it. I don’t know 
what this lady has against me, nor who has put this 
nonsense in her head. It cannot be you? You 
don’t doubt my honour? You don’t taunt me 
when I call myself a gentleman ? ” 

He came to a pause before Carford, expecting an 
answer to his hot questions. He saw offence in the 
mere fact that Carford was still silent. 

“ Come, my lord,” he cried, “ I do not take pleas- 
ure in seeing you think so long. Isn’t your answer 
easy ? ” He assumed an air of challenge. 

Carford was, I have no doubt, most plagued and 
perplexed. He could have dealt better with a knave 
than with this fiery gentleman. Barbara had de- 
manded of him that he should resist even the King’s 
command. He might escape that perilous obhga- 
tion by convincing Fontelles himself that he was a 
tool in hands less honourable than his own; then 
the Frenchman would in all likelihood abandon his 
enterprise. But with him would go Carford’s hold 
on Barbara and his best prospect of winning her; 
for in her trouble lay his chance. If, on the other 
hand, he quarrelled openly with Fontelles, he must 
face the consequences he feared or incur Barbara’s 
unmeasured scorn. He could not solve the puzzle 
and determined to seek a respite. 

343 


SIMON DALE 


“ I do not doubt your honour, sir,” he said. Fon- 
telles bowed gravely. “ But there is more in this 
matter than you know. I must beg a few hours 
for consideration and then I will tell you all openly.” 

My orders will not endure much delay.” 

"‘You can’t take the lady by force.” 

“ I count on the aid of my friends and the King’s 
to persuade her to accompany me willingly.” 

I do not know whether the words brought the 
idea suddenly and as if with a flash into Carford’s 
head. It may have been there dim and vague 
before, but now it was clear. He paused on his 
way to the door, and turned back with brightened 
eyes. He gave a careless laugh, saying, 

“ My dear Fontelles, you have more than me to 
reckon with before you take her away.” 

“ What do you mean, my lord ? ’ ’ 

“ Why, men in love are hard to reason with, and 
with fools in love there is no reasoning at all. Come, 
I’m your friend, although there is for the moment a 
difficulty that keeps us apart. Do you chance to 
remember our meeting at Canterbury ? ” 

“ Why, very well.” 

“And a young fellow who talked French to 
you ? ” Carford laughed again. “ He disturbed 
you mightily by calling out ” 

“ ‘ II vient / ’ ” cried Fontelles, all on the alert. 

“ Precisely. Well, he may disturb you again.” 

“ By Heaven, then he’s here ? ” 

“ Why, yes.” 

“I met him last night! He cried those words 
to me again. The insolent rascal ! I’ll make him 
pay for it.” 

“ In truth you’ve a reckoning to settle with him.” 

“ But how does he come into this matter ? ” 

344 


THE DEVICE OF LORD CARFORD 

‘‘ Insolent still, he’s a suitor for Mistress Quin- 
ton’s hand.” 

Fontelles gave a scornful shrug of his shoulders; 
Carford, smiling and more at ease, watched him. 
The idea promised well ; it would be a stroke indeed 
could the quarrel be shifted on to my shoulders, and 
M. de Fontelles and I set by the ears; whatever 
the issue of that difference, Carford stood to win by 
it. And I, not he, would be the man to resist the 
King’s commands. 

“ But how comes he here ? ” cried Fontelles. 

‘ ‘ The fellow was born here. He is an old neigh- 
bour of Mistress Quinton.” 

‘‘ Dangerous then ? ” 

It was Carford’s turn to shrug his shoulders, as 
he said, 

‘‘Fools are always dangerous. Well, I’ll leave 
you. I want to think. Only remember; if you 
please to be on your guard against me, why, be 
more on your guard against Simon Dale.” 

“He dares not stop me. Nay, why should he? 
What I propose is for the lady’s advantage.” 

Carford sawthe quarrel he desired fairly in the mak- 
ing. M. de Fontelles was honest, M. de Fontelles 
was hot-tempered, M. de Fontelles would be told 
that he was a rogue. To Carford this seemed enough. 

“You would do yourself good if you convinced 
him of that,” he answered. “ For though she would 
not, I think, become his wife, he has the influence 
of long acquaintance, and might use it against you. 
But perhaps you’re too angry with him ? ” 

“ My duty comes before my quarrel,” said Fon- 
telles. “ I will seek this gentleman.” 

“ As you will. I think you’re wise. They will 
know at the inn where to find him.” 

345 


SIMON DALE 


“1 will see him at once,” cried Fontelles. “I 
have, it seems, two matters to settle with this gen- 
tleman.” 

Carford, concealing his exultation, bade M. de 
Fontelles do as seemed best to him. Fontelles, 
declaring again that the success of his mission was 
nearest his heart, but in truth eager to rebuke or 
chasten my mocking disrespect, rushed from the 
room. Carford followed more leisurely. He had 
at least time for consideration now ; and there were 
the chances of this quarrel all on his side. 

“ Will you come with me? ” asked Fontelles. 

“ Nay, it’s no affair of mine. But if you need me 

later .” He nodded. If it came to a meeting, 

his services were ready. 

“ I thank you, my lord,” said the Frenchman, un- 
derstanding his offer. 

They were now at the door, and stepped out on 
the terrace. Barbara, hearing their tread, looked 
up. She detected the eagerness in M. de Fontelles’ 
manner. He went up to her at once. 

‘‘ Madame,” he said, “ I am forced to leave you 
for a while, but I shall soon return. May I pray 
you to greet me more kindly when I return ? ” 

“ In frankness, sir, I should be best pleased if you 
did not return,” she said coldly; then, turning to 
Carford, she looked inquiringly at him. She con- 
ceived that he had done her bidding, and thought 
that the gentlemen concealed their quarrel from 
her. “You go with M. de Fontelles, my lord?” 
she asked. 

“With your permission, I remain here,” he 
answered. 


She was vexed, and rose to her feet as she cried : 
“ Then where is M. de Fontelles going ? ” 


346 


THE DEVICE OF LORD CARFORD 

Fontelles took the reply for himself. 

“ I am going to seek a gentleman with whom I 
have business,” said he. 

“You have none with my Lord Carford ? ” 

“ What I have with him will wait.” 

“ He desires it should wait ? ” she asked in a quick 
tone. 

‘‘ Yes, madame.” 

“ I’d have sworn it,” said Barbara Quinton. 

“ But with Mr. Simon Dale ” 

“ With Simon Dale? What concern have you 
with Simon Dale ? ” 

“ He has mocked me twice, and I believe hin- 
ders me now,” returned Fontelles, his hot temper 
rising again. 

Barbara clasped her hands, and cried triumph- 
antly ; 

“ Go to him, go to him. Heaven is good to me ! 
Go to Simon Dale.” 

The amazed eyes of Fontelles and the sullen 
enraged glance of Carford recalled her to wariness. 
Yet the avowal (O, that it had pleased God I 
should hear it!) must have its price and its pen- 
alty. A burning flush spread over her face and 
even to the border of the gown on her neck. But 
she was proud in her shame, and her eyes met 
theirs in a level gaze. 

To Fontelles her bearing and the betrayal of 
herself brought fresh and strong confirmation of 
Carford’s warning. But he was a gentleman, and 
would not look at her when her blushes implored 
the absence of his eyes. 

“ I go to seek Mr. Dale,” said he gravely, and 
without more words turned on his heel. 

In a sudden impulse, perhaps a sudden doubt 
347 


SIMON DALE 

of her judgment of him, Barbara darted after 
him. 

“ For what purpose do you seek him? ” 

“ Madame,” he answered, “ I cannot tell you.” 

She looked for a moment keenly in his face; her 
breath came quick and fast, the hue of her cheek 
flashed from red to white. 

“Mr. Dale,” said she, drawing herself up, “will 
not fear to meet you.” 

Again Fontelles bowed, turned, and was gone, 
swiftly and eagerly striding down the avenue, bent 
on finding me. 

Barbara was left alone with Carford. His heavy 
frown and surly eyes accused her. She had no 
mind to accept the part of the guilty. 

“Well, my lord,” she said, “have you told this 
M. de Fontelles what honest folk would think of 
him and his errand ? ” 

“ I believe him to be honest,” answered Carford. 

“ You live the quieter for your belief! ” she cried 
contemptuously. 

“ I live the less quiet for what I have seen just 
now,” he retorted. 

There was a silence. Barbara stood with heav- 
ing breast, he opposite to her, still and sullen. 
She looked long at him, but at last seemed not to 
see him ; then she spoke in soft tones, not as 
though to him, but rather in an answer to her 
own heart, whose cry could go no more unheeded. 
Her eyes grew soft and veiled in a mist of tears 
that did not fall. (So I see it — she told me no 
more than that she was near crying. ) 

“I couldn’t send for him,” she murmured. “I 
wouldn’t send for him. But now he will come, 
yes, he’ll come now.” 


348 


THE DEVICE OF LORD CARFORD 


Carford, driven half-mad by an outburst which 
his own device had caused, moved by whatever of 
true love he had for her, and by his great rage and 
jealousy against me, fairly ran at her and caught 
her by the wrist. 

‘‘ Why do you talk of him ? Do you love him? ” 
he said from between clenched teeth. 

She looked at him, half-angry, half-wondering. 
Then she said, 

“Yes.” 

“Nell Gwyn’s lover?” said Carford. 

Her cheek flushed again, and a sob caught her 
voice as it came. 

“Yes,” said she. ‘’Nell Gwyn’s lover.” 

“ You love him ? ” 

“ Always, always, always.” Then she drew her- 
self near to him in a sudden terror. “ Not a word, 
not a word,” she cried. “ I don’t know what you 
are, I don’t trust you; forgive me, forgive me; 
but whatever you are, for pity’s sake, ah, my dear 
lord, for pity’s sake, don’t tell him. Not a word ! ” 

“ I will not speak of it to M. de Fontelles,” said 
Carford. 

An amazed glance was followed by a laugh that 
seemed half a sob. 

‘‘ M. de Fontelles ! M. de Fontelles ! No, no, 
but don’t tell Simon.” 

Carford’s lips bent in a forced smile uglier than 
a scowl. 

“You love this fellow ? ” 

“ You have heard.” 

‘‘ And he loves you? ” 

The sneer was bitter and strong. In it seemed 
now to lie Carford’s only hope. Barbara met his 
glance an instant, and her answer to him was : 

23 349 


SIMON DALE 


“ Go, go.” 

“ He loves you ? ” 

“ Leave me. I beg you to leave me. Ah, God, 
won’t you leave me ? ” 

“ He loves you ? ” 

Her face went white. For a while she said 
nothing; then in a calm quiet voice, whence all 
life and feehng, almost all intelligence, seemed to 
have gone, she answered : 

“ I think not, my lord.” 

He laughed. “Leave me,” she said again, and 
he, in grace of what manhood there was in him, 
turned on his heel and went. She stood alone, 
there on the terrace. 

Ah, if God had let me be there! Then she 
should not have stood desolate, nor flung herself 
again on the marble seat. Then she should not 
have wept as though her heart broke, and all the 
world were empty. If I had been there, not the 
cold marble should have held her, and for every 
sweetest tear there should have been a sweeter 
kiss. Grief should have been drowned in joy, 
while love leapt to love in the fulness of delight. 
Alas for pride, breeder of misery ! Not life itself 
is so long as to give atonement to her for that 
hour; though she has said that one moment, a 
certain moment, was enough. 


850 


CHAPTER XXIII 


A PLEASANT PENITENCE 

There was this great comfort in the Vicar’s soci- 
ety that, having once and for all stated the irrefu- 
table proposition which I have recorded, he let the 
matter alone. Nothing was further from his 
thoughts than to argue on it, unless it might be to 
take any action in regard to it. To say the truth, 
and I mean no unkindness to him in saying it, the 
affair did not greatly engage his thoughts. Had 
Betty Nasroth dealt with it, the case would doubt- 
less have been altered, and he would have followed 
its fortune with a zest as keen as that he had be- 
stowed on my earlier unhappy passion. But the 
prophecy had stopped short, and all that was of 
moment for the Vicar in my career, whether in 
love, war, or State, was finished; I had done and 
undergone what fate declared and demanded, and 
must now live in gentle resignation. Indeed I 
think that in his inmost heart he wondered a little 
to find me living on at all. This attitude was very 
well for him, and I found some amusement in it 
even while I chafed at his composed acquiescence 
in my misfortunes. But at times I grew impatient, 
and would fling myself out of the house, crying 
Plague on it, is this old crone not only to drive 
me into folly, but to forbid me a return to wis- 
dom?” 

In such a mood I had left him, to wander by 
myself about the lanes, while he sat under the 
351 


SIMON DALE 


porch of his house with a great volume open on his 
knees. The book treated of Vaticination in all its 
branches, and the Vicar read diligently, being so 
absorbed in his study that he did not heed the ap- 
proach of feet, and looked up at last with a start. 
M. de Fontelles stood there, sent on from the inn 
to the parsonage in the progress of his search for 
me. 

“ I am called Georges de Fontelles, sir,” he 
began. 

“ I am the Vicar of this parish, at your service, 
sir,” returned the Vicar courteously. 

“ I serve the King of France, but have at this 
time the honour of being employed by his Majesty 
the King of England.” 

“ I trust, sir,” observed the Vicar mildly, “ that 
the employment is an honour.” 

“ Your loyalty should tell you so much.” 

“We are commanded to honour the King, but I 
read nowhere that we must honour all that the 
King does.” 

“ Such distinctions, sir, lead to disaffection and 
even to rebellion,” said Fontelles severely. 

“ I am very glad of it,” remarked the Vicar com- 
placently. 

I had told my old friend nothing of what con- 
cerned Barbara; the secret was not mine; there- 
fore he had nothing against M. de Fontelles ; yet 
it seemed as though a good quarrel could be found 
on the score of general principles. It is strange 
how many men give their heads for them and how 
few can give a reason ; but God provides every 
man with a head and since the stock of brains will 
not supply all, we draw lots for a share in it. Yes, 
a pretty quarrel promised; but a moment later 
352 


A PLEASANT PENITENCE 


Fontelles, seeing no prospect of sport in falling 
out with an old man of sacred profession, and 
amused, in spite of his principles, by the Vicars 
whimsical talk, chose to laugh rather than to 
storm, and said with a chuckle : 

“ Well, kings are hke other men.” 

“ Very like,” agreed the Vicar. “ In what can I 
serve you, sir ? ” 

“ I seek Mr. Simon Dale,” answered Fontelles. 

“ Ah, Simon I Poor Simon ! What would you 
with the lad, sir ? ” 

“ I will tell that to him. Why do you call him 
poor? ” 

“ He has been deluded by a high-sounding 
prophecy, and it has come to little.” The Vicar 
shook his head in gentle regret. 

“ He is no worse off, sir, than a man who mar- 
ries,” said Fontelles with a smile. 

“ Nor, it may be, than one who is born,” said the 
Vicar, sighing. 

“ Nor even than one who dies,” hazarded the 
Frenchman. 

“ Sir, sir, let us not be irreligious,” implored the 
Vicar, smiling. 

The quarrel was most certainly over. Fontelles 
sat down by the Vicar’s side. 

“Yet, sir,” said he, “ God made the world.” 

“ It is full as good a world as we deserve,” said 
the Vicar. 

“ He might well have made us better, sir.” 

“There are very few of us who truly wish it,” 
the Vicar replied. “ A man hugs his sin.” 

“ The embrace, sir, is often delightful.” 

“ I must not understand you,” said the Vicar. 

Fontelles’ business was proceeding but slowly. 

353 


SIMON DALE 


A man on an errand should not allow himself to 
talk about the universe. But he was recalled to 
his task a moment later by the sight of my figure 
a quarter of a mile away along the road. With 
an eager exclamation he pointed his finger at me, 
lifted his hat to the Vicar, and rushed off in pur- 
suit. The Vicar, who had not taken his thumb 
from his page, opened his book again, observing to 
himself, “ A gentleman of some parts, I think.” 

His quarrel with the Vicar had evaporated in 
the mists of speculation ; Fontelles had no mind 
to lose his complaint against me in any such man- 
ner, but he was a man of ceremony and must needs 
begin again with me much as he had with the 
Vicar. Thus obtaining my opportunity, I cut 
across his preface, saying brusquely : 

“Well, I am glad that it is the King’s employ- 
ment and not M. de Perrencourt’s.” 

He flushed red. 

“ W e know what we know, sir,” said he. “ If 
you have anything to say against M. de Perren- 
court, consider me as his friend. Did you cry out 
to me as I rode last night ? ” 

“ Why, yes, and I was a fool there. As for M. 
de Perrencourt ” 

“ If you speak of him, speak with respect, sir. 
You know of whom you speak.” 

“Very well. Yet I have held a pistol to his 
head,” said I, not, I confess, without natural 
pride. 

Fontelles started, then laughed scornfully. 

“ When he and Mistress Quinton and I were in 
a boat together,” I pursued. “ The quarrel then 
was which of us should escort the lady, he or I, 
and whether to Calais or to England. And al- 
354 


A PLEASANT PENITENCE 


though I should have been her husband had we 
gone to Calais, yet I brought her here.” 

‘‘ You’re pleased to talk in riddles.” 

‘‘ They’re no harder to understand than your er- 
rand is to me, sir,” I retorted. 

He mastered his anger with a strong effort, and 
in a few words told me his errand, adding that by 
Carford’s advice he came to me. 

“ For I am told, sir, that you have some power 
with the lady.” 

I looked full and intently in his face. He met 
my gaze unflinchingly. There was a green bank 
by the roadside; I seated myself; he would not 
sit, but stood opposite to me. 

“ I will tell you, sir, the nature of the errand on 
which you come,” said I, and started on the task 
with all the plainness of language that the matter 
required and my temper enjoyed. 

He heard me without a word, with hardly a 
movement of his body ; his eyes never left mine all 
the while I was speaking. I think there was a 
sympathy between us, so that soon I knew that he 
was honest, while he did not doubt my truth. His 
face grew hard and stern as he listened; he per^ 
ceived now the part he had been set to play. He 
asked me but one question when I had ended : 

‘‘ My Lord Carford knew all this ? ” 

‘‘Yes, all of it,” said I. “He was privy to all 
that passed.” 

Engaged in talk, we had not noticed the Vicar’s 
approach. He was at my elbow before I saw him ; 
the large book was under his arm. Fontelles turned 
to him with a bow. 

“ Sir,” said he, “you were right just now.” 

“ Concerning the prophecy, sir? ” 

355 


SIMON DALE 


“No, concerning the employment of kings,” 
answered M. de Fontelles. Then he said to me, 
“We will meet again, before I take my leave of 
your village.” With this he set off at a round pace 
down the road. I did not doubt that he went to 
seek Mistress Barbara and ask her pardon. I let 
him go ; he would not hurt her now. I rose my- 
self from the green bank, for I also had work to do. 

“ Will you walk with me, Simon ? ’ ’ asked the 
Vicar. 

“Your pardon, sir, but I am occupied.” 

“ Will it not wait?” 

I do not desire that it should.” 

For now that Fontelles was out of the way. Car- 
ford alone remained. Barbara had not sent for me, 
but still I served her, and to some profit. 

It was now afternoon and I set out at once on 
my way to the Manor. I did not know what had 
passed between Barbara and Carford, nor how his 
passion had been stirred by her avowal of love for 
me, but I conjectured that on learning how his plan 
of embroiling me with Fontelles had failed, he 
would lose no time in making another effort. 

Fontelles must have walked briskly, for I, al- 
though I did not loiter on the road, never came in 
sight of him, and the long avenue was empty when 
I passed the gates. It is strange that it did not 
occur to my mind that the clew to the Frenchman’s 
haste was to be found in his last question ; no doubt 
he would make his excuses to Mistress Quinton in 
good time, but it was not that intention which lent 
his feet wings. His errand was the same as my 
own ; he sought Carford, not Barbara, even as I. 
He found what he sought, I what I did not seek, 
but what, once found, I could not pass by. 

356 


A PLEASANT PENITENCE 


She was walking near the avenue, but on the 
grass behind the trees. I caught a glimpse of her 
gown through the leaves and my quick steps were 
stayed as though by one of the potent spells that 
the Vicar loved to read about. For a moment or 
two I stood there motionless ; then I turned and 
walked slowly towards her. She saw me a few 
yards off, and it seemed as though she would fly. 
But in the end she faced me proudly ; her eyes 
were very sad and I thought that she had been 
weeping ; as I approached she thrust something — 
it looked like a letter — into the bosom of her gown, 
as if in terror lest I should see it. I made her a 
low bow. 

“ I trust, madame,” said I, “ that my lady 
mends ? ” 

“I thank you, yes, although slowly.” 

“ And that you have taken no harm from your 
journey ? ” 

“ I thank you, none.” 

It was strange, but there seemed no other topic 
in earth or heaven ; for I looked first at earth and 
then at heaven, and in neither place found any. 

‘‘ I am seeking my Lord Carford,” I said at last. 

I knew my error as soon as I had spoken. She 
would bid me seek Carford without delay and pro- 
test that the last thing in her mind was to detain 
me. I cursed myself for an awkward fool. But to 
my amazement she did nothing of what I looked 
for, but cried out in great agitation and, as it 
seemed, fear : 

“You mustn’t see Lord Carford.” 

‘‘Why not?” I asked. “He won’t hurt me.” 
Or at least he should not, if my sword could stop 
his. 


357 


SIMON DALE 


“ It is not that. It is — it is not that,” she mur- 
mured, and flushed red. 

“ Well then, I will seek him.” 

“No, no, no,” cried Barbara in a passion that 
fear — surely it was that and nothing else — made 
imperious. I could not understand her, for I knew 
nothing of the confession which she had made, but 
would not for the world should reach my ears. 
Yet it was not very likely that Carford would tell 
me, unless his rage carried him away. 

“ You are not so kind as to shield me from Lord 
Carford’s wrath ? ” I asked rather scornfully. 

“No,” she said, persistently refusing to meet 
my eyes. 

“ What is he doing here ? ” I asked. 

“ He desires to conduct me to my father.” 

“ My God, you won’t go with him ? ” 

For the fraction of a moment her dark eyes met 
mine, then turned away in confusion. 

“ I mean,” said I, “ is it wise to go with him ? ” 

“ Of course you meant that,” murmured Barbara. 

“ M. de Fontelles will trouble you no more,” I 
remarked, in a tone as calm as though I stated the 
price of wheat ; indeed much calmer than such a 
vital matter was wont to command at our village 
inn. 

“ What ? ” she cried. “ He will not ? ” 

“ He didn’t know the truth. I have told him. 
He is an honourable gentleman.” 

“You’ve done that also, Simon?” She came a 
step nearer me. 

“ It was nothing to do,” said I. Barbara fell back 
again. 

“ Yet I am obliged to you,” said she. I bowed 
with careful courtesy. 


358 


A PLEASANT PENITENCE 

Why tell these silly things? Every man has 
such in his life. Yet each counts his own memory 
a rare treasure, and it will not be denied utterance. 

“ I had best seek my Lord Carford,” said I, more 
for lack of another thing to say than because there 
was need to say that. 

“ I pray you cried Barbara, again in a 

marked agitation. 

It was a fair soft evening ; a breeze stirred the 
tree-tops, and I could scarce tell when the wind 
whispered and when Barbara spoke, so like were the 
caressing sounds. She was very different from the 
lady of our journey, yet like to her who had for a 
moment spoken to me from her chamber- door at 
Canterbury. 

“ You haven’t sent for me,” I said, in a low voice. 
“ I suppose you have no need of me ? ” 

She made me no answer. 

« Why did you fling my guinea in the sea ? ” I 
said, and paused. 

“ Why did you use me so on the way?” I asked. 

“ Why haven’t you sent for me ? ” I whispered. 

She seemed to have no answer for any of these 
questions. There was nothing in her eyes now save 
the desire of escape. Yet she did not dismiss me, 
and without dismissal I w^ould not go. I had for- 
gotten Carford and the angry Frenchman, my 
quarrel and her peril ; the questions I had put to 
her summed up all life now held. 

Suddenly she put her hand to her bosom, and 
drew out that same piece of paper which I had 
seen her hide there. Before my eyes she read, or 
seemed to read, something that was in it ; then 
she shut her hand on it. In a moment I was by 
her, very close. I looked full in her eyes, and 
359 


SIMON DALE 


they fled behind covering lids ; the little hand, 
tightly clenched, hung by her side. What had I 
to lose ? W as I not already banned for forward- 
ness? I would be forward still, and justify the 
sentence by an after- crime. I took the hanging 
hand in both of mine. She started, and I loosed 
it ; but no rebuke came, and she did not fly. The 
far-off stir of coming victory moved in my blood ; 
not yet to win, but now to know that win you will 
sends through a man an exultation, more sweet 
because it is still timid. I watched her face — it 
was very pale — and again took her hand. The lids 
of her eyes rose now an instant, and disclosed 
entreaty. I was ruthless ; our hearts are strange, 
and cruelty or the desire of mastery mingled with 
love in my tightened grasp. One by one I bent 
her fingers back ; the crushed paper lay in a palm 
that was streaked to red and white. With one 
hand still I held hers, with the other I spread out 
the paper. “ You mustn’t read it,” she murmured. 
“ Oh, you mustn’t read it.” I paid no heed, but 
held it up. A low exclamation of wonder broke 
from me. The scrawl that I had seen at Canter^ 
bury now met me again, plain and unmistakable in 
its laborious awkwardness. “In pay for your dag- 
ger,” it had said before. Were five words the 
bounds of Nell’s accomplishment? She had writ- 
ten no more now. Yet before she had seemed to 
say much in that narrow limit ; and much she said 
now. 

There was long silence between us ; my eyes were 
intent on her veiled eyes. 

“ You needed this to tell you? ” I said at last. 

“ You loved her, Simon.” 

I would not allow the plea. Shall not a thing 
360 


A PLEASANT PENITENCE 


that has become out of all reason to a man’s own 
self thereby blazon its absurdity to the whole 
world ? 

“ So long ago ! ” I cried scornfully. 

“Nay, not so long ago,” she murmured, with a 
note of resentment in her voice. 

Even then we might have fallen out ; we were in 
an ace of it, for I most brutally put this question : 

“ You waited here for me to pass? ” 

I would have given my ears not to have said it ; 
what availed that? A thing said is a thing done, 
and stands for ever amid the irrevocable. For an 
instant her eyes flashed in anger; then she flushed 
suddenly, her bps trembled, her eyes grew dim, 
yet through the dimness mirth peeped out. 

“ I dared not hope you’d pass,” she whispered. 

“ I am the greatest villain in the world ! ” I cried. 
“ Barbara, you had no thought that I should pass ! ” 

Again came silence. Then I spoke, and softly : 

“ And you — ^is it long since you ? ” 

She held out her hands towards me, and in an 
instant was in my arms. First she hid her face, 
but then drew herself back as far as the circle of 
my arm allowed. Her dark eyes met mine full 
and direct in a confession that shamed me but 
shamed her no more ; her shame was swallowed in 
the sweet pride of surrender. 

“Always,” said she, “always; from the first 
through all; always, always.” It seemed as 
though she could not speak that word enough. 

In truth I could scarcely believe it; save when I 
looked in her eyes, I could not believe it. 

“But I wouldn’t tell you,” she said. “I swore 
you should never know. Simon, do you remember 
how you left me ? ” 


361 


SIMON DALE 


It seemed that I must play penitent now. 

“ I was too young to know ” I began. 

“ I was younger and not too young,” she cried. 
“And all through those days at Dover I didn’t 
know. And when we were together I didn’t know. 
Ah, Simon, when I flung your guinea in the sea, you 
must have known ! ” 

“On my faith, no,” I laughed. “I didn’t see 
the love in that, sweetheart.” 

“ I’m glad there was no woman there to tell you 
what it meant,” said Barbara. “ And even at Can- 
terbury I didn’t know. Simon, what brought you 
to my door that night ? ” 

I answered her plainly, more plainly than I could 
at any other time, more plainly, it may be, than 
even then I should : 

“ She bade me follow her, and I followed her so 
far.” 

“ You followed her ? ” 

“ Ay. But I heard your voice through the door, 
and stopped.” 

“ You stopped for my voice ; what did I say ? ” 

“ You sung how a lover had forsaken his love. 
And I heard and stayed.” 

“ Ah, why didn’t you tell me then ? ” 

“ I was afraid, sweetheart.” 

“ Of what ? Of what ? ” 

“ Why, of you. You had been so cruel.” 

Barbara’s head, still strained far as could be from 
mine, now drew nearer by an ace, and then she 
launched at me the charge of most enormity, the 
indictment that justified all my punishment. 

“ You had kissed her before my eyes, here, sir, 
where we are now, in my own Manor Park,” said 
Barbara. 


362 


A PLEASANT PENITENCE 


I took my arms from about her, and fell humbly 
on my knee. 

“ May I kiss so much as your hand ? ” said I in 
utter abasement. 

She put it suddenly, eagerly, hurriedly to my lips. 

‘‘ Why did she write to me ? ” she whispered. 

“Nay, love, I don’t know.” 

“ But I know. Simon, she loves you.” 

“ It would afford no reason if she did. And I 
think ” 

“ It would and she does. Simon, of course she 
does.” 

“ I think rather that she was sorry for ” 

“ Not for me ! ” cried Barbara with great vehe- 
mence. “ I will not have her sorry for me ! ” 

“For you!” I exclaimed in ridicule. (It does 
not matter what I had been about to say before.) 
“ For you ! How should she? She wouldn’t dare ! ” 

“No,” said Barbara. One syllable can hold a 
world of meaning. 

“ A thousand times, no ! ” cried I. 

The matter was thus decided. Yet now, in quiet 
blood and in the secrecy of my own soul, shall I ask 
wherefore the letter came from Mistress Gwyn, to 
whom the shortest letter was no light matter, and 
to let even a humble man go some small sacrifice? 
And why did it come to Barbara and not to me? 
And why did it not say “Simon, she loves you,” 
rather than the words that I now read, Barbara 
permitting me : “ Pretty fool, he loves you.” Let 
me not ask; not even now would Barbara bear to 
think that it was written in pity for her. 

“ Yes, she pitied you and so she wrote; and she 
loves you,” said Barbara. 

I let it pass. Shall a man never learn wisdom? 

363 


SIMON DALE 


Tell me now,” said I, ‘‘ why I may not see Car- 
ford ? ” 

Her lips curved in a smile; she held her head 
high, and her eyes were triumphant. 

“ You may see Lord Carford as soon as you will, 
Simon,” said she. 

“ But a few minutes ago ” I began, much 

puzzled. 

“ A few minutes ! ” cried Barbara reproachfully. 

‘‘ A whole hfetime ago, sweetheart ! ” 

“ And shall that make no changes? ” 

‘‘ A whole lifetime ago you were ready to die 
sooner than let me see him.” 

‘‘ Simon, you’re very He knew, I told him.” 

“You told him?” I cried. “Before you told 
me?” 

“ He asked me before,” said Barbara. 

I did not grudge her that retort; every jot of 
her joy was joy to me, and her triumph my 
dehght. 

“ How did I dare to tell him ? ” she asked her- 
self softly. ‘ ‘ Ah, but how have I contrived not 
to tell all the world ? How wasn’t it plain in my 
face?” 

“ It was most profoundly hidden,” I assured her. 
Indeed from me it had been ; but Barbara’s wit had 
yet another answer. 

“You were looking in another faee,” said she. 
Then, as the movement of my hands protested, 
remorse seized on her, and catching my hand, 
she cried impulsively, “ I’ll never speak of it again, 
Simon.” 

Now, I was not so much ashamed of the affair 
as to demand that utter silence on it ; in which point 
lies a difference between men and women. To have 
364 


A PLEASANT PENITENCE 


wandered troubles our consciences little, when we 
have come to the right path again ; their pride 
stands so strong in constancy as sometimes (I 
speak in trembling) even to beget an oblivion of its 
falterings and make what could not have been 
as if it had not. But now was not the moment 
for excuse, and I took my pardon with all grati- 
tude and with full allowance of my offence’s 
enormity. 

Then we determined that Carford must imme- 
diately be sought, and set out for the house with 
intent to find him. But our progress was very slow, 
and the moon rose in the skies before we stepped 
out on to the avenue and came in sight of the house 
and the terrace. There was so much to tell, so 
much that had to slough off its old seeming and 
take on new and radiant apparel — things that she 
had understood and not I, that I had caught and 
she missed, wherein both of us had gone astray 
most lamentably and now stood aghast at our own 
sightlessness. Therefore never were our feet fairly 
in movement towards the house but a sudden — 
“ Do you remember ? ” gave them pause again : 
then came shame that I had forgotten, or indigna- 
tion that Barbara should be thought to have for- 
gotten, and in both of these cases the need for ex- 
piation, and so forth. The moon was high in 
heaven when we stepped into the avenue and came 
in sight of the terrace. 

On the instant, with a low cry of surprise and 
alarm, Barbara caught me by the arm, while she 
pointed to the terrace. The sight might well turn 
us even from our engrossing interchange of mem- 
ories. There were four men on the terrace, their 
figures standing out dense and black against the 
24 365 


SIMON DALE 


old gray walls, which seemed white in the moon- 
light. Two stood impassive and motionless, with 
hands at their sides ; at their feet lay what seemed 
bundles of clothes. The other two were in their 
shirts; they were opposite one another, and their 
swords were in their hands. I could not doubt the 
meaning ; while love held me idle, anger had lent 
Fontelles speed ; while I sought to perfect my joy, 
he had been hot to avenge his wounded honour. I 
did not know who were the two that watched un- 
less they were servants ; Fontelles’ fierce mood 
would not stand for the niceties of etiquette. Now 
I could recognise the Frenchman’s bearing and 
even see Carford’s face, although distance hid 
its expression. I was amazed and at a loss what 
to do. How could I stop them and by what 
right ? But then Barbara gave a little sob and 
whispered : 

“ My mother lies sick in the house.” 

It was enough to loose my bound limbs. I 
sprang forward and set out at a run. I had not far 
to go and lost no time ; but I would not cry out 
lest I might put one off his guard and yet not arrest 
the other’s stroke. For the steel flashed, and they 
fought, under the eyes of the quiet servants. I was 
near to them now, and already wondering how best 
to interpose, when, in an instant, the Frenchman 
lunged, Carford cried out, his sword dropped fi'om 
his hand, and he fell heavily on the gravel of the 
terrace. The servants rushed forward and knelt 
down beside him. M. de Fontelles did not leave his 
place, but stood, with the point of his naked sword on 
the ground, looking at the man who had put an 
affront on him and whom he had now chastised. 
The sudden change that took me from love’s 
366 


A PLEASANT PENITENCE 


pastimes to a scene so stern deprived me of speech 
for a moment. I ran to Fontelles and faced him, 
panting but saying nothing. He turned his eyes 
on me; they were calm, but shone still with the 
heat of contest and the sternness of resentment. 
He raised his sword and pointed with it towards 
where Carford lay. 

“ My lord there,” said he, “ knew a thing that 
hurt my honour, and did not warn me of it. He 
knew that I was made a tool and did not tell me. 
He knew that I was used for base purposes and 
sought to use me for his own also. He has his 
recompense.” 

Then he stepped across to where the green bank 
sloped down to the terrace and, falling on one knee, 
wiped his blade on the grass. 


367 


CHAPTER XXIV 

A COMEDY BEFORE THE KING 

On the next day but one M. de Fontelles and 
I took the road for London together. Carford 
lay between life and death (for the point had 
pierced his lung) at the inn to which we had car- 
ried him; he could do no more harm and occasion 
us no uneasiness. On the other hand, M. de Fon- 
telles was anxious to seek out the French Ambas- 
sador, with whom he was on friendly terms, and 
enlist his interest, first to excuse the abandonment 
of his mission, and in the second place to explain 
the circumstances of his duel with Carford. In 
this latter task he asked my aid, since I alone, 
saving the servants, had been a witness of the 
encounter, and Fontelles, recognising (now that 
his rage was past) that he had been wrong to force 
his opponent to a meeting under such conditions, 
prayed my testimony to vindicate his reputation. 
I could not deny him, and moreover, though it 
grieved me to be absent from Quinton Manor, I 
felt that Barbara’s interests and my own might be 
well served by a journey to London. No news had 
come from my lord, and I was eager to see him and 
bring him over to my side ; the disposition of the 
King was also a matter of moment and of un- 
certainty; would he still seek to gain for M. de 
Perrencourt what that exacting gentleman re- 
quired, or would he now abandon the struggle in 
which his instruments had twice failed him? His 
368 


A COMEDY BEFORE THE KING 


Majesty should now be returning from Dover, and 
I made up my mind to go to Court and learn 
from him the worst and the best of what I might 
look for. Nay, I will not say that the pure desire 
to see him face to face had not weight with me ; for 
I believed that he had a liking for me, and that I 
should obtain from him better terms in my own 
person than if my cause were left in the hands of 
those who surrounded him. 

When we were come to London (and I pray 
that it be observed and set down to my credit that, 
thinking there was enough of love-making in this 
history, I have spared any narrative of my farewell 
to Barbara, although on my soul it was most mov- 
ing) M. de Fontelles at once sought the Ambas- 
sadors, taking my promise to come there as soon as 
his summons called, while I betook myself to the 
lodging which I had shared with Darrell before we 
went to Dover. I hoped to find him there and 
renew our friendship ; my grudge was for his mas- 
ters, and I am not for making an enemy of a man 
who does what his service demands of him. I was 
not disappointed ; Robert opened the door to me, 
and Darrell himself sprang to his feet in amaze- 
ment at the sound of my name. I laughed heart- 
ily and flung myself into a chair, saying : 

‘‘ How goes the Treaty of Dover ? ” 

He ran to the door and tried it; it was close- 
shut. 

“The less you say of that, the safer you’ll be,” 
said he. 

“ Oho,” thought I, “ then I’m not going to mar- 
ket empty-handed! If I want to buy, it seems 
that I have something to sell.” And smiling very 
good-humouredly I said : 

369 


SIMON DALE 


“ What, is there a secret in it ? ” 

Darrell came up to me and held out his hand. 

“ On my life,” said he, “ I didn’t know you were 
interested in the lady, Simon, or I wouldn’t have 
taken a hand in the affair.” 

“ On my life,” said I, “ I’m obliged to you. 
What of Mile, de Qu^rouaille ? ” 

“ She has returned with Madame.” 

“ But will return without Madame ? ” 

“ Who knows ? ” he asked with a smile that he 
could not smother. 

“ God and the King,” said I. “What of M. de 
Perrencourt ? ” 

“Your tongue’s hung so loose, Simon, that one 
day it’ll hang you tight.” 

“ Enough, enough. What then of Phineas Tate? ” 
“ He is on board ship on his way to the plan- 
tations. He’ll find plenty to preach to there.” 

“What? Why, there’s never a Papist sent 
now ! He’ll mope to death. What of the Duke 
of Monmouth ? ” 

“ He has found out Carford.” 

“ He has? Then he has found out the Secre- 
tary also ? ” 

“ There is indeed a distance between his Grace 
and my lord,” Darrell admitted. 

“ When rogues fall out ! A fine saying that, 
Darrell. And what of the King? ” 

“ My lord tells me that the King swears he won’t 
sleep o’ nights till he has laid a certain troublesome 
fellow by the heels.” 

“ And where is that same troublesome fellow ? ” 
“So near me that, did I serve the King as I 
ought, Robert would now be on his way with news 
for my Lord Arlington. ” 

370 


A COMEDY BEFORE THE KING 


“ Then His Majesty’s sentiments are mighty un- 
kind towards me? Be at peace, Darrell. I am 
come to London to seek him.” 

“ To seek him ? Are you mad ? You’ll follow 
Phineas Tate ! ” 

“ But I have a boon to ask of the King. I de- 
sire him to use his good offices with my Lord 
Quinton. For I am hardly a fit match for my 
lord’s daughter, and yet I would make her my 
wife.” 

“ I wonder,” observed Darrell, ‘‘ that you, Simon, 
who, being a heretic, must go to hell when you 
die, are not more careful of your life.” 

Then we both fell to laughing. 

“ Another thing brings me to London, ” I pur- 
sued. “ I must see Mistress Gwyn.” 

He raised his hands over his head. 

“Fill up the measure,” said he. “The King 
knows you came to London with her and is more 
enraged at that than all the rest.” 

“ Does he know what happened on the journey ? ” 

“ Why, no, Simon,” smiled Darrell. “ The mat- 
ter is just that. The King does not know what 
happened on the journey.” 

“He must learn it,” I declared. “To-morrow 
I’ll seek Mistress Gwyn. You shall send Robert 
to take her pleasure as to the hour when I shall 
wait on her. ” 

“ She’s in a fury with the King, as he with her.” 

“ On what account ? ” 

“Already, friend Simon, you’re too wise.” 

“ By Heaven, I know ! It’s because Mile, de 
Qudrouaille is so good a Catholic ? ” 

Darrell had no denial ready. He shrugged his 
shoulders and sat silent. 


371 


SIMON DALE 


Now although I had told Barbara that it was 
my intention to ask an audience from the King, I 
had not disclosed my purpose of seeing Mistress 
Nell. Yet it was firm in my mind — for courtesy’s 
sake. Of a truth she had done me great service. 
Was I to take it as though it were my right, with 
never a word of thanks ? Curiosity also drew me, 
and that attraction which she never lost for me, 
nor, as I believe, for any man whose path she 
crossed. I was sure of myself, and did not fear to 
go. Yet memory was not dead in me, and I went 
in a species of excitement, the ghost of old feelings 
dead but not forgotten. When a man has loved, 
and sees her whom he loves no more, he will not 
be indifferent; angry he may be, or scornful, 
amused he may be, and he should be tender; but 
it will not be as though he had not loved. Yet I 
had put a terrible affront on her, and it might be 
that she would not receive me. 

As I live, I believe that but for one thing she 
would not. That turned her, by its appeal to her 
humour. When I came to the house in Chelsea, 
I was conducted into a small ante- chamber, and 
there waited long. There were voices speaking in 
the next room, but I could not hear their speech. 
Yet I knew Nell’s voice; it had for me always — 
ay, still — echoes of the past. But now there was 
something which barred its way to my heart. 

The door in front of me opened, and she was in 
the room with me. There she was, curtseying low 
in mock obeisance and smiling whimsically. 

“ A bold man ! ” she cried. “ What brings you 
here ? Art not afraid ? ” 

“ Afraid that I am not welcome, yet not afraid 
to come.” 


372 


A COMEDY BEFORE THE KING 


“ A taunt wrapped in civility! I do not love it.” 

“Mistress Nell, I came to thank you for the 
greatest kindness ” 

“ If it be kindness to help you to a fool! ” said 
Mistress Nell. “What, besides your thanks to 
me, brings you to town ? ” 

I must forgive her the style in which she spoke 
of Barbara. I answered with a smile : 

“ I must see the King. I don’t know his pur- 
poses about me. Besides, I desire that he should 
help me to my — fool.” 

“ If you’re wise you’ll keep out of his sight.” 
Then she began to laugh. “ Nay, but I don’t 
know,” said she. Then with a swift movement 
she was by me, catching at my coat and turning 
up to me a face full of merriment. “ Shall we 
play a comedy ? ” she asked. 

“ As you will. What shall be my part ? ” 

“ I’ll give you a pretty part, Simon. Your face 
is very smooth ; nay, do not fear, I remember so 
well that I needn’t try again. You shall be this 
French lady of whom they speak.” 

“ I the French lady ! God forbid ! ” 

“Nay, but you shall, Simon. And I’ll be the 
King. Nay, I say, don’t be afraid. I swear you 
tried to run away then ! ” 

“ Is it not prescribed as the best cure for tempta- 
tion ? ” 

“ Alas, you’re not tempted ! ” she said with a 
pout. “ But there’s another part in the comedy.” 

“ Besides the King and Mademoiselle ? ” 

“ Why, yes — and a great part.” 

“ Myself by chance ? ” 

“ You ! No ! What should you do in the play ? 
It is I — I myself.” 


873 


SIMON DALE 


“True, true. I forgot you, Mistress Nell.” 

“You did forget me, Simon. But I must spare 
you, for you wiU have heard that same charge of 
fickleness from Mistress Quinton, and it is hard to 
hear it from two at once. But who shall play my 
part ? ” 

“ Indeed I can think of none equal to it.” 

“ The King shall play it ! ” she cried with a 
triumphant laugh, and stood opposite to me, the 
embodiment of merry triumph. “ Do you catch 
the plot of my piece, Simon ? ” 

“ I am very dull,” I confessed. 

“It’s your condition, not your nature, Simon,” 
Nell was so good as to say. “ A man in love is 
always dull, save to one woman, and she’s stark- 
mad. Come, can you feign an inclination for me, 
or have you forgot the trick ? ” 

At the moment she spoke the handle of the door 
turned. Again it turned and was rattled. 

“I locked it,” whispered Nell, her eyes full of 
mischief. 

Again, and most impatiently, the handle was 
twisted to and fro. 

“ Pat, pat, how pat he comes ! ” she whispered. 

A last loud rattle followed, then a voice cried in 
anger, “ Open it, I bid you open it.” 

“ God help us ! ” I exclaimed in sad perplexity. 
“ It’s the King? ” 

“ Yes, it’s the King, and, Simon, the piece begins. 
Look as terrified as you can. It’s the King.” 

“ Open, I say, open 1 ” cried the King, with a 
thundering knock. 

I understood now that he had been in the other 
room, and that she had left his society to come to 
me; but I understood only dimly why she had 
374 


A COMEDY BEFORE THE KING 

locked the door, and why she now was so slow in 
opening it. Yet I set my wits to work, and for 
further aid watched her closely. She was worth 
the watching. Without aid of paints or powders, 
of scene or theatre, she transformed her air, her 
manner, ay, her face also. Alarm and terror 
showed in her eyes as she stole in fearful fashion 
across the room, unlocked the door, and drew it 
open, herself standing by it, stiff and rigid, in what 
seemed shame or consternation. The agitation she 
feigned found some reality in me. I was not ready 
for the thing, although I had been warned by the 
voice outside. When the King stood in the door- 
way, I wished myself a thousand miles away. 

The King was silent for several moments ; he 
seemed to me to repress a passion which, let loose, 
might hurry him to violence. When he spoke, he 
was smiling ironically, and his voice was calm. 

“ How comes this gentleman here? ” he asked. 

The terror that Nell had so artfully assumed she 
appeared now, with equal art, to defy or conquer. 
She answered him with angiy composure. 

“ Why shouldn’t Mr. Dale be here. Sir? ” she 
asked. “ Am I to see no friends ? Am I to live 
all alone ? ” 

“ Mr. Dale is no friend of mine ” 

“ Sir ” I began, but his raised hand stayed me. 

‘‘ And you have no need of friends when I am 
here.” 

“ Your Majesty,” said she, “ came to say farewell ; 
Mr. Dale was but half an hour too soon.” 

This answer showed me the game. If he had 
come to bid her farewell — why, I understood now 
the parts in the comedy. If he left her for the 
Frenchwoman, why should she not turn to Simon 
375 


SIMON DALE 

Dale ? The King bit his lip. He also understood 
her answer. 

“You lose no time, mistress,” he said, with an 
uneasy laugh. 

“ IVe lost too much already,” she flashed back. 

“ With me ? ” he asked, and was answered by a 
sweeping curtsey and a scornful smile. 

“You’re a bold man, Mr. Dale,” said he. “I 
knew it before, and am now most convinced of it. ” 

“I didn’t expect to meet your Majesty here,” 
said I sincerely. 

“ I don’t mean that. You’re bold to come here 
at all.” 

“Mistress Gwyn is very kind to me,” said I. I 
would play my part and would not fail her, and I 
directed a timid yet amorous glance at Nell. The 
glance reached Nell, but on its way it struck the 
King. He was patient of rivals, they said, but he 
frowned now and muttered an oath. Nell broke 
into sudden laughter. It sounded forced and un- 
real. It was meant so to sound. 

“ W e’re old friends,” said she, “ Simon and I. 
We were friends before I was what I am. We’re 
still friends, now that I am what I am. Mr. Dale 
escorted me from Dover to London.” 

“ He is an attentive squire,” sneered the King. 

“ He hardly left my side,” said Nell. 

“ You were hampered with a companion ? ” 

“ Of a truth I hardly noticed it,” cried Nelly with 
magnificent falsehood. I seconded her efforts with 
a shrug and a cunning smile. 

“ I begin to understand,” said the King. “ And 
when my farewell has been said, what then ? ” 

“ I thought that it had been said half an hour 
ago,” she exclaimed. “ Wasn’t it ? ” 

376 


A COMEDY BEFORE THE KING 

“ You were anxious to hear it, and so seemed to 
hear it,” said he uneasily. 

She turned to me with a grave face and tender 
eyes. 

“Didn’t I tell you here, just now, how the King 
parted from me ? ” 

I was to take the stage now, it seemed. 

“Ay, you told me,” said I, playing the agitated 
lover as best I could. “ You told me that — that 
— but I cannot speak before His Majesty.” And I 
ended in a most rare confusion. 

“ Speak, sir,” he commanded harshly and curtly. 

“You told me,” said I in low tones, “that the 
King left you. And I said I was no King, but 
that you need not be left alone.” My eyes fell to 
the ground in pretended fear. 

The swiftest glance from Nell applauded me. I 
would have been sorry for him and ashamed for 
myself, had I not remembered M. de Perrencourt 
and our voyage to Calais. In that thought I 
steeled myself to hardness and bade conscience be 
still. 

A long silence followed. Then the King drew 
near to Nell. W ith a rare stroke of skill she seemed 
to shrink away from him and edged towards me, as 
though she would take refuge in my arms from his 
anger or his coldness. 

“ Come, I’ve never hurt you, Nelly,” said he. 

Alas, that art should outstrip nature! Never 
have I seen portrayed so finely the resentment of a 
love that, however greatly wounded, is still love, 
that even in turning away longs to turn back, that 
calls even in forbidding, and in refusing breathes 
the longing to assent. Her feet still came towards 
me, but her eyes were on the King. 

377 


SIMON DALE 


“ You sent me away,” she whispered as she moved 
towards me and looked where the King was. 

“ I was in a temper,” said he. Then he turned to 
me, saying “ Pray leave us, sir.” 

I take it that I must have obeyed, but Nell sprang 
suddenly forward, caught my hand, and holding it 
faced the King. 

“ He shan’t go; or, if you send him away. I’ll go 
with him. ” 

The King frowned heavily, but did not speak. 
She went on, choking down a sob — ay, a true sob ; 
the part she played moved her, and beneath her act- 
ing there was a reality. She fought for her power 
over him and now was the test of it. 

“Will you take my friendships from me as well 
as my ? Oh, I won’t endure it ! ” 

She had given him his hint in the midst of what 
seemed her greatest wrath. His frown persisted, 
but a smile bent his lips again. 

“ Mr. Dale,” said he, “ it is hard to reason with a 
lady before another gentleman. I was wrong to bid 
you go. But will you suffer me to retire to that 
room again ? ” 

I bowed low. 

“ And, ” he went on, “ will you excuse our host- 
ess’ presence for awhile ? ” 

I bowed again. 

“No, I won’t go with you,” cried Nell. 

“ Nay, but, Nelly, you will,” said he, smihng now. 
“ Come, I’m old and mighty ugly, and Mr. Dale is 
a strapping fellow. You must be kind to the un- 
fortunate, Nelly.” 

She was holding my hand still. The King took 
hers. Very slowly and reluctantly she let him draw 
her away. I did what seemed best to do ; I sighed 
378 


A COMEDY BEFORE THE KING 


very heavily and plaintively, and bowed in sad sub- 
mission. 

“Wait till we return,” said the King, and his 
tone was kind. 

They passed out together, and I, laughing yet 
ashamed to laugh, flung myself in a chair. She 
would not keep him for herself alone ; nay, as all 
the world knows, she made but a drawn battle of it 
with the Frenchwoman ; but the disaster and utter 
defeat which had threatened her she had averted, 
jealousy had achieved what love could not, he would 
not let her go now, when another’s arms seemed 
open for her. To this success I had helped her. 
On my life, I was glad to have helped her. But 
I did not yet see how I had helped my own cause. 

I was long in the room alone, and though the 
King had bidden me await his return, he did not 
come again. NeU came alone, laughing, radiant, 
and triumphant ; she caught me by both hands, and 
swiftly, suddenly, before I knew, kissed me on the 
cheek. Nay, come, let me be honest ; I knew a 
short moment before, but on my honour I could 
not avoid it courteously. 

“ We’ve won,” she cried. “ I have what I desire, 
and you, Simon, are to seek him at Whitehall. He 
has forgiven you all your sins and — yes, he’ll give 
you what favour you ask. He has pledged his 
word to me.” 

“ Does he know what I shall ask ? ” 

“ No, no, not yet. Oh, that I could see his face! 
Don’t spare him, Simon. Tell him — why, tell him 
all the truth — every word of it, the stark bare 
truth.” 

“ How shall I say it? ” 

“ Why, that you love, and have ever loved, and 
379 


SIMON DALE 


will ever love Mistress Barbara Quinton, and that 
you love not, and will never love, and have never 
loved, no, nor cared the price of a straw for Eleanor 
Gwyn.” 

“ Is that the whole truth ? ” said I. 

She was holding my hands stiU ; she pressed 
them now and sighed lightly. 

“ Why, yes, it’s the whole truth. Let it be the 
whole truth, Simon. What matters that a man 
once lived when he’s dead, or once loved when he 
loves no more ? ’ ’ 

‘‘ Yet I won’t tell him more than is true,” said I. 

“You’ll be ashamed to say anything else? ” she 
whispered, looking up into my face. 

“ Now, by Heaven, I’m not ashamed,” said I, 
and I kissed her hand. 

‘‘You’re not? ” 

“ No, not a whit. I think I should be ashamed, 
had my heart never strayed to you.” 

“ Ah, but you say ‘ strayed ’ ! ” 

I made her no answer, but asked forgiveness 
with a smile. She drew her hand sharply away, 
crying, 

“ Go your ways, Simon Dale, go your ways ; go 
to your Barbara, and your Hatchstead, and your 
dulness, and your righteousness.” 

“We part in kindness? ” I urged. 

For a moment I thought she would answer peev- 
ishly, but the mood passed, and she smiled sincerely 
on me as she replied : 

“Ay, in all loving-kindness, Simon; and when 
you hear the sour gird at me, say — why say, Simon, 
that even a severe gentleman, such as you are, 
once found some good in Nelly. Will you say 
that for me ? ” 


380 


A COMEDY BEFORE THE KING 


“ With all my heart. ” 

“ Nay, I care not what you say,” she burst out, 
laughing again. “ Begone, begone ! I swore to 
the King that I would speak but a dozen words to 
you. Begone ! ” 

I bowed and turned towards the door. She flew 
to me suddenly, as if to speak, but hesitated. I 
waited for her ; at last she spoke, with eyes averted 
and an unusual embarrassment in her air. 

“ If — if you’re not ashamed to speak my name 
to Mistress Barbara, tell her I wish her well, and 
pray her to think as kindly of me as she can.” 

“ She has much cause to think kindly,” said I. 

‘‘ And will therefore think unkindly ! Simon, I 
bid you begone.” 

She held out her hand to me, and I kissed it 
again. 

“ This time we part for good and all,” said she. 
“ I’ve loved you, and I’ve hated you, and I have 
nearly loved you. But it is nothing to be loved 
by me, who love all the world.” 

“ Nay, it’s something,” said I. “ Fare you well.” 

I passed out, but turned to find her eyes on me. 
She was laughing and nodding her head, swaying 
to and fro on her feet as her manner was. She 
blew me a kiss from her lips. So I went, and my 
hfe knew her no more. 

But when the strict rail on sinners, I guard my 
tongue for the sake of Nelly and the last kiss she 
gave me on my cheek. 


25 


881 


CHAPTER XXV 


THE MIND OF M. DE FONTELLES 

As I made my way through the Court nothing 
seemed changed; all was as I had seen it when I 
came to lay down the commission that Mistress 
Gwyn had got me. They were as careless, as 
merry, as shameless as before; the talk then had 
been of Madame’s coming, now it was of her 
going ; they talked of Dover and what had passed 
there, but the treaty was dismissed with a shrug, 
and the one theme of interest, and the one subject 
of wagers, was whether or how soon Mile, de 
Qu^rouaille would return to the shores and the 
monarch she had left. In me distaste now killed 
curiosity; I pushed along as fast as the throng 
allowed me, anxious to perform my task and be 
quit of them all as soon as I could. My part there 
was behind me ; the prophecy was fulfilled, and my 
ambitions quenched. Yet I had a pleasure in the 
remaining scene of the comedy which I was to 
play with the King; I was amused also to see how 
those whom I knew to be in the confidence of the 
Duke of York and of Arlington eyed me with 
mingled fear and wariness, and hid distrust under 
a most deferential civility. They knew, it seemed, 
that I had guessed their secrets. But I was not 
afraid of them, for I was no more their rival in the 
field of intrigue or in their assault upon the King’s 
favour. I longed to say to them, “ Be at peace. In 
an hour from now you will see my face no more.” 

382 


THE MIND OF M. DE FONTELLES 


The King sat in his chair, alone save for one 
gentleman who stood beside him. I knew the 
Earl of Rochester well by repute, and had been 
before now in the same company, although, as it 
chanced, I had never yet spoken with him. I 
looked for the King s brother and for Monmouth, 
but neither was to be seen. Having procured a 
gentleman to advise the King of my presence, I 
was rewarded by being beckoned to approach im- 
mediately. But when he had brought me there, 
he gave me no more than a smile, and, motioning 
me to stand by him, continued his conversation 
with my Lord Rochester and his caresses of the 
little dog on his lap. 

“In defining it as the device by which the weak 
intimidate the strong,” observed Rochester, “the 
philosopher declared the purpose of virtue rather 
than its effect. For the strong are not intimidated, 
while the weak, falling slaves to their own puppet, 
grow more helpless still.” 

“ It’s a just retribution on them,” said the King, 
“ for having invented a thing so tiresome.” 

“ In truth, Sir, all these things that make virtue 
are given a man for his profit, and that he may not 
go empty-handed into the mart of the world. He 
has stuff for barter; he can give honour for pleas- 
ure, morality for money, religion for power.” 

The King raised his brows and smiled again, 
but made no remark. Rochester bowed courte- 
ously to me, as he added : 

“ Is it not as I say, sir ? ” and awaited my reply. 

“It’s better still, my lord,” I answered. “For 
he can make these bargains you speak of, and, by 
not keeping them, have his basket still full for 
another deal.” 


383 


SIMON DALE 


Again the King smiled as he patted his dog. 

“Very just, sir, very just,” nodded Rochester. 
“ Thus by breaking a villainous bargain he is twice 
a villain, and preserves his reputation to aid him in 
the more effectual cheating of his neighbour.” 

“And the damning of his own soul,” said the 
King softly. 

“Your Majesty is Defender of the Faith. I 
will not meddle with your high office,” said 
Rochester with a laugh. “For my own part I 
suffer from a hurtful sincerity ; being known for a 
rogue by all the town, I am become the most 
harmless fellow in your Majesty’s dominions. As 
Mr. Dale here says — I have the honour of being 
acquainted with your name, sir — my basket is 
empty and no man will deal with me.” 

“ There are women left you,” said the King. 

“It is more expense than profit,” sighed the 
Earl. “Although indeed the kind creatures will 
most readily give for nothing what is worth as 
much.” 

‘ ‘ So that the sum of the matter,” said the King, 
“is that he who refuses no bargain however in- 
iquitous and performs none however binding ” 

“ Is a king among men. Sir,” interposed Roches- 
ter with a low bow, “ even as your Majesty is here 
in Whitehall.” 

“ And by the same title ? ” 

“ Ay, the same Right Divine. What think you 
of my reasoning, Mr. Dale ? ” 

“ I do not know, my lord, whence you came by 
it, unless the Devil has published a tract on the 
matter. ” 

“Nay, he has but circulated it among his 
friends,” laughed Rochester. “For he is in no 
384 


THE MIND OF M. DE FONTELLES 


need of money from the booksellers since he has a 
grant from God of the customs of the world for 
his support.” 

“ The King must have the Customs,” smiled 
Charles. “I have them here in England. But 
the smugglers cheat me.” 

“ And the penitents him, Sir. Faith, these 
Holy Churches run queer cargoes past his officers 
— or so they say ; ” and with another bow to the 
King, and one of equal courtesy to me, he turned 
away and mingled in the crowd that walked to and 
fro. 

The King sat some while silent, lazily pulling 
the dog’s coat with his fingers. Then he looked 
up at me. 

“Wild talk, Mr. Dale,” said he, “yet perhaps 
not all without a meaning.” 

“ There’s meaning enough. Sir. It’s not that I 
miss.” 

“ No, but perhaps you do. I have made many 
bargains ; you don’t praise all of them ? ” 

“ It’s not for me to judge the King’s actions.” 

“I wish every man were as charitable, or as 
dutiful. But — shall I empty my basket? You 
know of some of my bargains. The basket is not 
emptied yet.” 

I looked full in his face; he did not avoid my 
regard, but sat there smiling in a bitter amuse- 
ment. 

“ You are the man of reservations,” said he. “ I 
remember them. Be at peace and hold your place. 
For listen to me, Mr. Dale.” 

“ I am listening to your Majesty’s words.” 

“ It will be time enough for you to open your 
mouth when I empty my basket.” 

385 


SIMON DALE 


His words, and even more the tone in which he 
spoke and the significant glance of his eyes, declared 
his meaning. The bargain that I knew of I need 
not betray nor denounce till he fulfilled it. When 
would he fulfil it ? He would not empty his basket, 
but still have something to give when he dealt with 
the King of France. I wondered that he should 
speak to me so openly ; he knew that I wondered, 
yet, though his smile was bitter, he smiled still. 

I bowed to him and answered : 

“ I am no talker. Sir, of matters too great for 
me.” 

“That’s well. I know you for a gentleman of 
great discretion, and I desire to serve you. You 
have something to ask of me, Mr. Dale? ” 

‘‘The smallest thing in the world for your 
Majesty, and the greatest for me.” 

“ A pattern then that I wish all requests might 
follow. Let me hear it.” 

“ It is no more than your Majesty’s favour for 
my efforts to win the woman whom I love.” 

He started a little, and for the first time in all 
the conversation ceased to fondle the little dog. 

“The woman whom you love? Well, sir, and 
does she love you ? ” 

“ She has told me so. Sir.” 

“ Then at least she wished you to believe it. Do 
I know this lady ? ” 

“ Very well. Sir,” I answered in a very significant 
tone. 

He was visibly perturbed. A man come to his 
years will see a ready rival in every youth, however 
little other attraction there may be. But perhaps 
I had treated him too freely already; and now he 
used me well. I would keep up the jest no longer. 

386 


THE MIND OF M. DE FONTELLES 


“Once, Sir,” I said, “for a while I loved where 
the King loved, even as I drank of his cup.” 

“ I know, Mr. Dale. But you say ‘ once.’ ” 

“ It is gone by. Sir.” 

“ But yesterday ? ” he exclaimed abruptly. 

“She is a great comedian. Sir; but I fear I 
seconded her efforts badly.” 

He did not answer for a moment, but began 
again to play with the dog. Then raising his eyes 
to mine he said : 

“ You were well enough ; she played divinely, 
Mr. Dale.” 

“ She played for life. Sir.” 

“ Ay, poor Nelly loves me,” said he softly. “I 
had been cruel to her. But I won’t weary you 
with my affairs. What would you ? ” 

“ Mistress Gwyn, Sir, has been very kind to me.” 

“Sol believe,” remarked the King. 

“ But my heart. Sir, is now and has been for long 
irrevocably set on another.” 

“On my faith, Mr. Dale, and speaking as one 
man to another, I’m glad to hear it. Was it so at 
Canterbury ? ” 

“ More than ever before. Sir. For she was there 
and ” 

“ I know she was there.” 

“Nay, Sir, I mean the other, her whom I love, 
her whom I now woo. I mean Mistress Barbara 
Quinton, Sir.” 

The King looked down and frowned ; he patted 
his dog, he looked up again, frowning still. Then 
a queer smile bent his lips and he said in a voice 
which was most grave, for all his smile, 

“ You remember M. de Perrencourt ? ” 

“ I remember M. de Perrencourt very well, Sir.” 

387 


SIMON DALE 


“ It was by his choice, not mine, Mr. Dale, that 
you set out for Calais.” 

“ So I understood at the time, Sir.” 

“ And he is believed, both by himself and others, 
to choose his men — perhaps you will allow me to 
say his instruments, Mr. Dale — better than any 
Prince in Christendom. So you would wed Mis- 
tress Quinton ? W ell, sir, she is above your sta- 
tion.” 

“ I was to have been made her husband. Sir.” 

“ Nay, but she’s above your station,” he repeated, 
smiling at my retort, but conceiving that it needed 
no answer. 

“ She’s not above your Majesty’s persuasion, or, 
rather, her father is not. She needs none.” 

“ You do not err in modesty, Mr. Dale.” 

“ How should I, Sir, I who have drunk of the 
King’s cup ? ” 

‘ ‘ So that we should be friends ? ” 

“ And known what the King hid ? ” 

“ So that we must stand or fall together ? ” 

“ And loved where the King loved ? ” 

He made no answer to that, but sat silent for a 
great while. I was conscious that many eyes were 
on us, in wonder that I was so long with him, in 
speculation on what our business might be and 
whence came the favour that gained me such dis- 
tinction. I paid little heed, for I was seeking to 
follow the thoughts of the King and hoping that I 
had won him to my side. I asked only leave to 
lead a quiet life with her whom I loved, setting 
bounds at once to my ambition and to the plans 
which he had made concerning her. Nay, I believe 
that I might have claimed some hold over him, but 
I would not. A gentleman may not levy hush- 
388 


THE MIND OF M. DE FONTELLES 


money, however fair the coins seem in his eyes. 
Yet I feared that he might suspect me, and I said: 

“ To-day I leave the town. Sir, whether I have 
what I ask of you or not ; and whether I have what 
I ask of you or not I am silent. If your Majesty 
will not grant it me, yet, in all things that I may 
be, I am your loyal subject.” 

To all this — perhaps it rang too solemn, as the 
words of a young man are apt to at the moments 
when his heart is moved — he answered nothing, but 
looking up with a whimsical smile said, 

“ Tell me now ; how do you love this Mistress 
Quinton ? ” 

At this I fell suddenly into a fit of shame and 
bashful embarrassment. The assurance that I had 
gained at Court forsook me, and I was tongue-tied 
as any calf-lover. 

“ I — I don’t know,” I stammered. 

‘‘ Nay, but I grow old. Pray tell me, Mr. Dale,” 
he urged, beginning to laugh at my perturbation. 

For my life I could not : it seems to me that the 
more a man feels a thing the harder it is for him to 
utter ; sacred things are secret, and the hymn must 
not be heard save by the deity. 

The King suddenly bent forward and beckoned. 
Rochester was passing by, with him now was the 
Duke of Monmouth. They approached ; I bowed 
low to the Duke, who returned my salute most 
cavalierly. He had small reason to be pleased with 
me, and his brow was puckered. The King seemed 
to find fresh amusement in his son’s bearing, but he 
made no remark on it, and, addressing himself to 
Rochester, said ; 

“ Here, my lord, is a young gentleman much 
enamoured of a lovely and most chaste maiden. I 
389 


SIMON DALE 


ask him what this love of his is — for my memory 
fails — and behold he cannot tell me ! In case he 
doesn’t know what it is that he feels, I pray you tell 
him.” 

Rochester looked at me with an ironical smile. 

“ Am I to tell what love is ? ” he asked. 

‘ ‘ Ay, with your utmost eloquence,” answered the 
King, laughing still and pinching his dog’s ears. 

Rochester twisted his face in a grimace, and 
looked appealingly at the King. 

“There’s no escape ; to-day I am a tyrant,” said 
the King. 

“Hear then, youths,” said Rochester, and his 
face was smoothed into a pensive and gentle ex- 
pression. “ Love is madness and the only sanity, 
delirium and the only truth, blindness aiid the only 

vision, folly and the only wisdom. It is ” He 

broke off and cried impatiently, “ I have forgotten 
what it is.” 

“ Why, my lord, you never knew what it is,” said 
the King. “Alone of us here, Mr. Dale knows, 
and since he cannot tell us the knowledge is lost to 
the world. James, have you any news of my friend 
M. de Fontelles ? ” 

“Such news as your Majesty has,” answered 
Monmouth. “ And I hear tlEiat my Lord Carford 
will not die.” 

“ Let us be as thankful as is fitting for that,” said 
the King. “ M. de Fontelles sent me a very un- 
civil message ; he is leaving England, and goes, he 
tells me, to seek a King whom a gentleman may 
serve.” 

“Is the gentleman about to kill himself. Sir?” 
asked Rochester with an affected air of grave con- 
cern. 


390 


THE MIND OF M. DE FONTELLES 


“He’s an insolent rascal,” cried Monmouth 
angrily. “ Will he go back to France ? ” 

“ Why, yes, in the end, when he has tried the 
rest of my brethren in Europe. A man s King is 
like his nose; the nose may not be handsome, 
James, but it’s small profit to cut it off. That was 
done once, you remember ” 

“ And here is your JNIajesty on the throne,” in- 
terposed Rochester with a most loyal bow. 

“ James,” said the King, “ our friend Mr. Dale 
desires to wed Mistress Barbara Quinton.” 

Monmouth started violently and turned red. 

‘ ‘ His admiration for that lady,” continued the 
King, “ has been shared by such high and honour- 
able persons that I cannot doubt it to be well 
founded. Shall he not then be her husband ? ” 

Monmouth’s eyes were fixed on me; I met his 
glance with an easy smile. Again I felt that I, 
who had worsted M. de Perrencourt, need not fear 
the Duke of Monmouth. 

“If there be any man,” observed Rochester, 
“ who would love a lady who is not a wife, and yet 
is fit to be his wife, let him take her, in Heaven’s 
name ! For he might voyage as far in search of 
another like her as M. de Fontelles must in his 
search for a Perfect King.” 

“ Shall he not have her, James ? ” asked the 
King of his son. 

Monmouth understood that the game was 
lost. 

“ Ay, Sir, let him have her,” he answered, mus- 
tering a smile. “And I hope soon to see your 
Court graced by her presence.” 

Well, at that, I, most inadvertently and by an 
error in demeanour which I now deplore sincerely, 
391 


SIMON DALE 


burst into a short sharp laugh. The King turned 
to me with raised eye- brows. 

“ Pray let us hear the jest, Mr. Dale,” said he. 

“ Why, Sir,” I answered, “ there is no jest. I 
don’t know why I laughed, and I pray your pardon 
humbly.” 

“Yet there was something in your mind,” the 
King insisted. 

“ Then, Sir, if I must say it, it was no more than 
this ; if I would not be married in Calais, neither 
will I be married in Whitehall.” 

There was a moment’s silence. It was broken 
by Rochester. 

“ I am dull,” said he. “ I don’t understand that 
observation of Mr. Dale’s.” 

“ That may well be, my lord,” said Charles, and 
he turned to Monmouth, smiling maliciously as he 
asked, “ Are you as dull as my lord here, James, or 
do you understand what Mr. Dale would say ? ” 

Monmouth’s mood hung in the balance between 
anger and amusement. I had crossed and thwart- 
ed his fancy, but it was no more than a fancy. 
And I had crossed and thwarted M. de Perren- 
court’s also ; that was balm to his wounds. I do 
not know that he could have done me harm, and 
it was as much from a pure liking for him as from 
any fear of his disfavour that I rejoiced when I 
saw his kindly thoughts triumph and a smile come 
on his lips. 

“ Plague take the fellow,” said he, “ I under- 
stand him. On my life he’s wise !” 

I bowed low to him, saying, “I thank your 
Grace for your understanding.” 

Rochester sighed heavily. 

“ This is wearisome,” said he. “ Shall we walk? ” 
392 


THE MIND OF M. DE FONTELLES 


“You and James shall walk,” said the King. 
“ I have yet a word for Mr. Dale.” As they went 
he turned to me and said, “ But will you leave us ? 
I could find work for you here.” 

I did not know what to answer him. He saw 
my hesitation. 

“ The basket will not be emptied,” said he in a 
low and cautious voice. “ It will be emptied nei- 
ther for M. de Perrencourt nor for the King of 
France. You look very hard at me, Mr. Dale, 
but you needn’t search my face so closely. I will 
tell you what you desire to know. I have had my 
price, but I do not empty my basket.” Having 
said this, he sat leaning his head on his hands with 
his eyes cast up at me from under his swarthy 
bushy brows. 

There was a long silence then between us. For 
myself I do not deny that youthful ambition again 
cried to me to take his offer, while pride told me 
that even at Whitehall I could guard my honour 
and all that was mine. I could serve him ; since 
he told me his secrets, he must and would serve 
me. And he had in the end dealt fairly and kind- 
ly with me. 

The King struck his right hand on the arm of 
his chair suddenly and forcibly. 

“ I sit here,” said he; “ it is my work to sit here. 
My brother has a conscience, how long would he 
sit here? James is a fool, how long would he sit 
here ? They laugh at me or snarl at me, but here 
I sit, and here I will sit tiU my life’s end, by God’s 
grace or the Devil’s help. My gospel is to sit here.” 

I had never before seen him so moved, and never 
had so plain a glimpse of his heart, nor of the re- 
solve which lay beneath his lightness and frivolity. 

393 


SIMON DALE 


Whence came that one unswerving resolution I 
know not; yet I do not think that it stood on 
nothing better than his indolence and a hatred of 
going again on his travels. There was more than 
that in it ; perhaps he seemed to himself to hold a 
fort and considered all stratagems and devices well 
justified against the enemy. I made him no an- 
swer but continued to look at him. His passion 
passed as quickly as it had come, and he was smil- 
ing again with his ironical smile as he said to me : 

“ But my gospel need not be yours. Our paths 
have crossed, they need not run side by side. Come, 
man, I have spoken to you plainly, speak plainly 
to me.” He paused, and then, leaning forward, 
said, 

“Perhaps you are of M. de Fontelles’ mind? 
Will you join him in his search? Abandon it. 
You had best go to your home and wait. Heaven 
may one day send you what you desire. Answer 
me, sir. Are you of the Frenchman s mind ? ” 

His voice now had the ring of command in it 
and I could not but answer. And when I came 
to answer there was but one thing to say. He had 
told me the terms of my service. What was it to 
me that he sat there, if honour and the Kingdom’s 
greatness and all that makes a crown worth the 
wearing must go, in order to his sitting there? 
There rose in me at once an inclination towards 
him and a loathing for the gospel that he preached ; 
the last was stronger and, with a bow, I said : 

“ Yes, sir, I am of M. de Fontelles’ mind.” 

He heard me, lying back in his chair. He said 
nothing, but sighed lightly, puckered his brow an 
instant, and smiled. Then he held out his hand 
to me, and I bent and kissed it. 

394 


THE MIND OF M. DE FONTELLES 


“ Good-bye, Mr. Dale,” said he. “ I don’t know 
how long you’ll have to wait. I’m hale and — so’s 
my brother.” 

He moved his hand in dismissal, and, having 
withdrawn some paces, I turned and walked away. 
All observed or seemed to observe me ; I heard 
whispers that asked who I was, why the King had 
talked so long to me, and to what service or high 
office I was destined. Acquaintances saluted me 
and stared in wonder at my careless acknowledg- 
ment and the quick decisive tread that carried me 
to the door. Now, having made my choice, I was 
on fire to be gone ; yet once I turned my head and 
saw the King sitting still in his chair, his head rest- 
ing on his hands and a slight smile on his lips. He 
saw me look, and nodded his head. I bowed, 
turned again, and was gone. 

Since then I have not seen him, for the paths 
that crossed diverged again. But, as all men know, 
he carried out his gospel. There he sat till his 
life’s end, whether by God’s grace or the Devil’s 
help I know not. But there he sat, and never did 
he empty his basket lest, having given all, he 
should have nothing to carry to market. It is not 
for me to judge him now; but then, when I had 
the choice set before me, there in his own palace, I 
passed my verdict. I do not repent of it. For 
good or evil, in wisdom or in folly, in mere honesty 
or the extravagance of sentiment, I had made my 
choice. I was of the mind of M. de Fontelles, 
and I went forth to wait till there should be a 
King whom a gentleman could serve. Yet to this 
day I am sorry that he made me tell him of my 
choice. 


395 


CHAPTER XXVI 


I COME HOME 

1 HAVE written the foregoing for my children s sake 
that they may know that once their father played 
some part in great affairs, and, rubbing shoulder to 
shoulder with folk of high degree, bore himself (as 
I venture to hope) without disgrace, and even with 
that credit which a ready brain and hand bring to 
their possessor. Here, then, I might well come to 
an end, and deny myself the pleasure of a last few 
words indited for my own comfort and to please a 
greedy recollection. The children, if they read, 
will laugh. Have you not seen the mirthful won- 
der that spreads on a girl’s face when she comes by 
chance on some relic of her fathers wooing, a 
faded wreath that he has given her mother, or 
a nosegay tied with a ribbon and a poem attached 
thereto? She will look in her father’s face, and 
thence to where her mother sits at her needle-work, 
just where she has sat at her needle- work these 
twenty years, with her old kind smile and comfort- 
able eyes. The girl loves her, loves her well, but — 
how came father to write those words ? For mother, 
though the dearest creature in the world, is not 
slim, nor dazzling, nor a Queen, nor is she Venus 
herself, decked in colours of the rainbow, nor a 
Goddess come from heaven to men, nor the desire 
of all the world, nor aught else that father calls her 
in the poem. Indeed, what father wrote is some- 
396 


I COME HOME 


thing akin to what the Squire slipped into her own 
hand last night ; but it is a strange strain in which 
to write to mother, the dearest creature in the world, 
but no, not Venus in her glory nor the Queen of 
the Nymphs. But though the maiden laughs, her 
father is not ashamed. He still sees her to whom 
he wrote, and when she smiles across the room at 
him, and smiles again to see her daughter’s wonder, 
all the years fade from the picture’s face, and the 
vision stands as once it was, though my young 
mistress’ merry eyes have not the power to see it. 
Let her laugh. God forbid that I should grudge it 
her ! Soon enough shall she sit sewing and another 
laugh. 

Carford was gone, well-nigh healed of his wound, 
healed also of his love, I trust, at least headed off 
from it. M. de Fontelles was gone also, on that 
quest of his which made my Lord Rochester so 
merry ; indeed, I fear that in this case the scoffer 
had the best of it, for he whom I have called M. 
de Perrencourt was certainly served again by his 
indignant subject, and that most brilliantly. Well, 
had I been a Frenchman, I could have forgiven 
King Louis much ; and I suppose that, although 
an Englishman, I do not hate him greatly, since 
his ring is often on my wife’s finger and I see it 
there without pain. 

It was the day before my wedding was to take 
place ; for my lord, on being informed of all that 
had passed, had sworn roundly that since there was 
one honest man who sought his daughter, he would 
not refuse her, lest while he waited for better 
things worse should come. And he proceeded to 
pay me many a compliment, which I would repeat, 
despite of modesty, if it chanced that I remem- 
26 397 


SIMON DALE 


bered them. But in truth my head was so full of 
his daughter that there was no space for his praises, 
and his well-turned eulogy (for my lord had a 
pretty flow of words) was as sadly wasted as though 
he had spoken it to the statue of Apollo on his 
terrace. 

I had been taking dinner with the Vicar, and, 
since it was not yet time to pay my evening visit 
to the Manor, I sat with him a while after our 
meal, telling him for his entertainment how I had 
talked with the King at Whitehall, what the King 
had said, and what I, and how my Lord Rochester 
had talked flnely of the Devil, and tried, but failed, 
to talk of love. He drank in all with eager ears, 
weighing the wit in a balance, and striving to see, 
through my recollection, the life and the scene and 
the men that were so strange to his eyes and so 
familiar to his dreams. 

“ You don’t appear very indignant, sir,” I ven- 
tured to observe with a smile. 

We were in the porch, and, for answer to what 
I said, he pointed to the path in front of us. Fol- 
lowing the direction of his finger, I perceived a fly 
of a species with which I, who am a poor student 
of nature, was not familiar. It was villainously 
ugly, although here and there on it were patches of 
bright colour. 

“Yet,” said the Vicar, “you are not indignant 
with it, Simon.” 

“No, I am not indignant,” I admitted. 

“ But if it were to crawl over you ” 

“ I should crush the brute,” I cried. 

“ Yes. They have crawled over you and you are 
indignant. They have not crawled over me, and I 
am curious.” 


I COME HOME 


“ But, sir, will you allow a man no disinterested 
moral emotion ? ” 

“As much as he will, and he shall be cool at the 
end of it,” smiled the Vicar. ‘‘ Now if they took 
my benefice from me again ! ” Stooping down, he 
picked up the creature in his hand and fell to ex- 
amining it very minutely. 

“ I wonder you can touch it,” said I in disgust. 

“You did not quit the Court without some re- 
gret, Simon,” he reminded me. 

I could make nothing of him in this mood and 
was about to leave him when I perceived my lord 
and Barbara approaching the house. Springing up, 
I ran to meet them ; they received me with a grave 
air and in the ready apprehension of evil born of a 
happiness that seems too great 1 cried out to know 
if there were bad tidings. 

“ There’s nothing that touches us nearly,” said my 
lord. ‘ ‘ But very pitiful news is come from France.” 

The Vicar had followed me and now stood by 
me ; I looked up and saw that the ugly creature 
was still in his hand. 

“ It concerns Madame, Simon,” said Barbara. 
“ She is dead and all the town declares that she had 
poison given to her in a cup of chicory- water. Is it 
not pitiful ? ” 

Indeed the tidings came as a shock to me, for I 
remembered the winning grace and wit of the un- 
happy lady. 

“ But who has done it ? ” I cried. 

“ I don’t know,” said my lord. “ It is set down 
to her husband ; rightly or wrongly, who knows ? ” 

A silence ensued for a few moments. The Vicar 
stooped and set his captive free to crawl away on 
the path. 


399 


SIMON DALE 


‘‘God has crushed one of them, Simon,” said 
he. “ Are you content ? ” 

“ I try not to beheve it of her,” said I. 

In a grave mood we began to walk and presently, 
as it chanced, Barbara and I distanced the slow 
steps of our elders and found ourselves at the 
Manor gates alone. 

“ I am very sorry for Madame,” said she, sighing 
heavily. Yet presently, because by the mercy of 
Providence our own joy outweighs others’ grief 
and thus we can pass through the world with un- 
broken hearts, she looked up at me with a smile 
and passing her arm through mine drew herself 
close to me. 

“Ay, be merry, to-night at least be merry, my 
sweet,” said I. “ For we have come through a forest 
of troubles and are here safe out on the other side.” 

“ Safe and together,” said she. 

“ Without the second, where would be the first?” 

“Yet,” said Barbara, “ I fear you’ll make a bad 
husband ; for here at the very beginning — nay, I 
mean before the beginning — you have deceived me.” 

“ I protest !” I cried. 

“ For it was from my father only that I heard of 
a visit you paid in London.” 

I bent my head and looked at her. 

“ I would not trouble you with it,” said I. “ It 
was no more than a debt of civility. ’ ’ 

“ Simon, I don’t grudge it to her. For I am 
here in the country with you, and she is there in 
London without you.” 

“ And in truth,” said I, “ I believe that you are 
both best pleased.” 

“For her,” said Barbara, “ I cannot speak.” 

For a long while then we walked in silence, while 
400 


I COME HOME 


the afternoon grew full and waned again. They 
mock at lovers’ talk ; let them, say I with all my 
heart, so that they leave our silence sacred. But 
at last Barbara turned to me and said with a little 
laugh : 

“ Art glad to have come home, Simon ? ” 

Verily I was glad. In body I had wandered 
some way, in mind and heart farther, through many 
dark ways, turning and twisting here and there, 
leading I knew not whither, seeming to leave no 
track by which I might regain my starting point. 
Yet, although I felt it not, the thread was in my 
hand, the golden thread spun here in Hatchstead 
when my days were young. At length the hold of 
it had tightened and I, perceiving it, had turned 
and followed. Thus it had brought me home, no 
better in purse or station than I went, and poorer 
by the loss of certain dreams that haunted me, yet, 
as I hope, sound in heart and soul. I looked now 
in the dark eyes that were set on me as though 
there were their refuge, joy, and life; she clung 
to me as though even still I might leave her. But 
the last fear fled, the last doubt faded away, and a 
smile came in radiant serenity on the lips I loved 
as, bending down, I whispered : 

‘‘ Ay, I am glad to have come home.” 

But there was one thing more that I must say. 
Her head fell on my shoulder as she murmured: 

“ And you have utterly forgotten her? ” 

Her eyes were safely hidden. I smiled as I 
answered, ‘^Utterly.” 

See how I stood ! Wilt thou forgive me, Nelly? 

For a man may be very happy as he is and still 
not forget the things which have been. ‘‘What 
are you thinking of, Simon?” my wife asks 
401 


SIMON DALE 


sometimes when I lean back in my chair and smile. 
“ Of nothing, sweet,” say I. And, in truth, I am 
not thinking; it is only that a low laugh echoes 
distantly in my ear. Faithful and loyal am I, but 
— should such as Nell leave nought behind her? 


THE END 


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